Vanguard
by kitsunerei88
Summary: [Sequel to Liar Liar and From America With Love] Revolutions don't begin with spellfire and flying Molotov Potions. Revolutions begin with people. This revolution begins with a pureblood boy standing trial for a ruse he and his halfblood cousin have perpetrated, and a halfblood bastard with a gift for uncovering secrets.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: As it says on the tin, folks! If you have not read either From America with Love or Liar Liar, very little of this work will make sense to you. If you have read Liar Liar but not From America with Love, you will probably not make any sense of this because, if anything, Liar Liar is the side fic and Vanguard is a very much a direct continuation of From America with Love. That said, for those of you who loved both of those, please enjoy this, dare I say, much anticipated first chapter of Vanguard!_

XXX

Hermione sighed – softly enough that she hoped no one had seen it. Standing next to Archie, her expressions, her actions mattered too, and even if she was no actress, she had a job to do. She snatched Derrick's arm as the Aurors led Archie away, stopping him from doing anything else rash.

Derrick was an angry hothead. She and Isran had told him, told everyone in the BSA to stay out of it and let the arrest happen. Where was Isran? He was better at keeping Derrick under control than she was, and it was his job to make sure this didn't happen. Derrick had never been good at keeping his contempt for Wizarding Britain under wraps, they knew this was a risk. It was no wonder he got along so well with Sean Docherty from Cascadia. If it was up to the two of them, Terminal M would be ground zero for a riot.

But it wasn't time for that. They needed allies – homegrown, British, allies. A riot now would only feed the other side's propaganda about them, about how uncontrolled and dangerous they were with their impure, half-formed cores: a public safety menace. Archie needed to change the narrative about them; he needed to show that they were right to be angry. He needed to bring them public sympathy and support, and if anyone could do it, it was Archie Black.

It didn't matter. Archie had handled Derrick's previous outburst admirably, his orders keeping the lot of them from sparking a riot. He had such a flair for the dramatic, though – Hermione suppressed a small smile, just thinking about it. There Archie had stood, scornfully invoking every right his noble and pureblood status granted him, giving the Aurors arresting him orders! _You will not question me, you will not use Veritaserum on me, you will not touch me or use any sort of compulsion or force on me whatsoever, and you will provide me with all basic necessities of life until my lawyer can get me out. Oh, and call my lawyer for me._

It was a thing of beauty. Hermione had fallen more in love with him with every word. So had the every British newblood or halfblood watching.

Some girls, she suspected, would have been far more upset to watch their boyfriends be arrested. She wasn't. They knew he would be, because the British Ministry of Magic had to show they were taking action on the _Rigel Black_ _scandal_. If they didn't, it would show that the blood purity laws wouldn't be enforced – at least not for purebloods.

They had had a strategy for that, too – if Archie hadn't been arrested, they would have been in the media drawing comparisons between his treatment and Harry's. Archie would have called on all pureblood allies to act to protect their newblood and halfblood neighbours, because they wouldn't be prosecuted. And then he probably would have been arrested, but the Ministry would have been able to get charge him with a few other things if that had happened, and they would have had more evidence.

If Hermione was running the British Ministry of Magic's political strategy, that was what she would have done. She would have let Archie go home, given him enough leeway and rope, and let him hang himself with it. Fortunately, the British Ministry was still reeling from the scandal and the lack of progress with any other arrests, so they didn't have the political capital to spend appearing to turn a blind eye to Archie's antics for even a few more weeks. She had counted on that; Archie's interview was engineered to put them in exactly that position. There was a reason Hermione Granger was the youngest Advocacy and Policy Chair in BSA history.

"You can let go, Hermione," Derrick said wryly. "They're almost gone, I'm not going to fly off the handle and attack them or anything."

"I told you to stay out of it, Derrick." Hermione shook her head and let him go. "It's fine – he handled it well, so it put us in a better position."

"It was pretty amazing, watching him put them down." Derrick smiled suddenly, a dreamy look coming into his eyes. "Just those orders… I'm going to be savouring that image for _weeks_."

Hermione laughed a little, shaking her head again. "I have to go talk to Archie's dad – give Archie's trunk to him and explain a few things. And deliver a letter."

"The Lord Black?" Derrick scanned the crowd, which was beginning to bunch and crowd the exits. He was taller than her, so he had a better view. "You better hurry – I think that's him, over there, leaving."

"Damn," Hermione cursed. "I'll call you later, Derrick."

She ducked and dodged her way through the crowd, pushing people aside when she needed to and calling her excuses over her shoulder. Archie was right; his dad looked so much like him that she couldn't mistake him. Lord Sirius Orion Black wore his hair shoulder-length, curly like Archie's hair tended to be when he let it get longer, and he had the same body type, tall and willowy. His face had the same high cheekbones, and he had the same sparkling grey eyes.

Those stupid grey eyes would be the death of Hermione, she swore. Every time Archie got teary or emotional, they would glint just a bit, and his words would be so stupidly sweet and kind and heartfelt she would find herself agreeing to whatever he wanted. Like those damn milkshakes. She didn't even like milkshakes. It was bad enough when his eyes were green, but now that they were grey, it was a nightmare.

"Lord Black!" she called out, panting slightly from exertion. She was not athletic and had never been, despite efforts to get into better shape for the Tournament. "Lord Black, please, wait!"

Archie had said she could just call him by name, that his dad didn't care for his noble title, but it seemed rude to call him anything else. She had never met the man, though Archie talked about him all the time. She knew that they were unusually close, all the more understandable given his mother's death, and that he was probably right. But, as a complete and utter stranger, she couldn't possibly just go up to the Lord Black and call him "Sirius". It didn't feel right.

He stopped and turned, and Hermione was struck anew by now similar he looked to Archie. He was a few inches taller than Archie (though Archie was still growing), his face had more lines, and his jaw was more chiseled, square, but the nose, those eyes, those cheekbones, were the same. It was like looking at Archie through a slightly twisted mirror. She hurried the last few paces towards him.

"Hello," Hermione panted, leaning over slightly to catch her breath. Was she supposed to curtsey or something? Too late now, and she didn't know how to curtsey anyway. "I'm sorry, you don't know me. My name is Hermione Granger. I'm Archie's girlfriend."

Lord Black raised an eyebrow, considering, and Hermione refused to be embarrassed or self-conscious. She knew how she looked, and she knew how Archie looked. Archie was objectively handsome – tall, dark-haired, good facial structure, and those stupid, sparkling grey eyes. Hermione was not conventionally beautiful – she was of average height, with broad shoulders and hips and the kind of breasts that needed to be tied down in the most restrictive bra possible to keep them under control. Her face was too round, her two front teeth were a little too big even after she had shrunk them (her one concession to vanity), and her hair was a mostly untamed mane flying wherever she didn't want it to go.

She knew they looked completely at odds. She didn't care. Archie had chosen her, and the rest of the world and their conventional beauty standards could go and take a hike. She had better things to do than try to force herself into a mold she didn't belong in.

"I've heard of you, though." Lord Black nodded slowly, thinking it over. He was frowning. "Or have I? I've heard about you from my niece Harry, who said you're worth all of Rigel's friends combined."

Hermione laughed. It had taken her months to get used to the idea of the ruse, and even now things cropped up that she had never considered before. "That sounds like something Archie would say," she agreed. "Which was likely repeated by Harry. I did meet Harry once, when Archie was in South America, but I can't say that we know each other at all. She was pretending to be Archie when we met and was doing such a terrible job that I guessed she was an imposter right away. I wasn't myself around her."

Lord Black smiled, a little sadly, with a flicker of something that Hermione couldn't read in his grey eyes. That was strange – Lord Black's eyes were exactly Archie's, but Hermione had always been able to read Archie, even during those teetering days after she had confirmed the ruse. She blinked, and the expression was gone. "I'm sorry to know so little about you, then. It seems my son's girlfriend knows him much better than his own father. You did say girlfriend?"

"I did," Hermione confirmed, reaching into her pocket for the miniature trunk that Archie had given her earlier, as well as the folded-up sheet of paper, wrapped around a set of pictures. He had only kept his pocketwatch, with the Black coat of arms, and his wand on him, the kind of things that he knew the Aurors would be reluctant to destroy or use against him. His trunk simply carried too many incriminating items, from his collection of AIM sweatshirts (he insisted on getting a new one every year), his CDs and CD player, and his Muggle science fiction and fantasy books. A whole other life was trapped in his trunk, which was why Hermione was carrying it. If the Ministry was smart, they would have detained her too, but there were advantages to being an absolute nobody in Wizarding Britain. She passed the key-chain-sized trunk and paper to Lord Black. "Archie wanted me to give you his school trunk. And this letter, with the pictures."

"Thanks," Lord Black said, accepting it with hands that looked just like Archie's – long-fingered and expressive. He glanced through the pictures, the ones that Archie had gotten from his interview, only pausing on the shot of Archie, looking proudly off to one corner with a slight smile on his face. It was a good shot, Archie's favourite, because he was framed on one side by a stern-faced John, the insignia of a Natural Legilimens prominent on his chest, and a solemn, sleek Neal Queenscove was on his other side, one hand resting on his sword hilt. Lord Black pocketed them, then looked her over, seemingly a little uncertain.

"Archie would tell you not to worry," Hermione added, slightly hesitant. What did one say to their boyfriend's father when their boyfriend had just been arrested? Especially if they hadn't met him before? "And don't worry about the legal fees. The British International Association, the umbrella organization of the British Students Associations in every school with a significant British student population, has a legal fund and will cover it. Archie said to tell you that he is fine, that Harry is fine, that he can't wait to see you and that he has so much to tell you. And that he's having some friends come by soon and can you please make up a few spare bedrooms – not for me, I live in Oxford, but our other friends."

Lord Black barked a rough laugh, his face showing a hint of genuine amusement. "I assume he told you to say this all with his boundless energy, too. We can afford the legal fees, I will take care of those myself." He ran one hand through his hair, looking for a moment much older than Hermione had guessed. Archie said that his father was young, still in his mid-thirties, since pureblood nobles married right out of school, but the gesture aged him by years. "Gods."

Hermione shrugged, sympathetic, but she wouldn't step on his pride. The BIA could always use the legal fund on another challenge. "If you like. But Archie speaks for all of us, so if you have any difficulties, let me know and I will raise them with the board." She paused. Archie had said that his Dad likely didn't know a lot about either the BSA or the BIA, and that he hadn't told his family much over the years. "The British International Association is the main organization representing and assisting British witches and wizards worldwide. We are mainly Muggleborns and halfbloods who haven't been able to come home, so our organization helps support us internationally."

It was an incomplete and vague explanation of what the BIA did, but she wouldn't be making a full explanation in public, even if they were at Heathrow International Aeroport which was filled, currently, by people who knew perfectly well what the BIA did. One never knew who was listening. Aside from merely supporting British expatriates, the BIA also had many members within Britain itself. It was the largest and most influential association of British Muggleborns and halfbloods worldwide, and their advocacy arm, of which Hermione was a junior member by virtue of her position as the Advocacy and Policy Chair for the AIM BSA, lobbied for greater sanctions on Wizarding Britain, looser immigration laws for British Muggleborns and halfbloods internationally, increased acceptance of blood refugees from Britain, and so on. They had considerable power, in democratic nations.

The problem was that Wizarding Britain was not a democracy. It was an outright oligarchy, and not even one cloaked with the slightest pretensions of merit. The only relevant qualification for membership in the law-making ranks was ancestry, and seats would simply remain sitting empty when family lines died out. Even the Roman Senate had had better sense than to create a system so utterly isolated from new ideas and the opinions of its citizens!

She bit her lip – like the widespread influence of the BIA internationally, the aeroport was not the place to get into the myriad deficiencies of the British Wizarding government, especially with her boyfriend's father, a ranking Wizengamot member and whom she barely knew.

"I … see," Lord Black nodded once, firmly, then he tried for a roguish smile. She could see where Archie had come by his flirtatious nature. "Hermione, then. I have a thousand questions, as do Lily and James – those are Harry's parents—"

"I am aware," Hermione broke in dryly. "Archie did pretend to be Harry for the last four years at school."

Lord Black laughed suddenly, a hearty and genuine laugh. "Was he terrible at it? He must have been. He's never been good at acting – couldn't even talk himself out of trouble as a kid."

Hermione blinked at him, the slight smile she had dropping away as she processed what he said. He didn't know about Archie's acting. Archie loved his dad so much, and Archie loved theatre, and Lord Black didn't know anything about it.

"Then that must be something he developed in America," she said quietly, a little stiff. "Archie picked up the lead in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ in his first year, then Jem Finch in _To Kill A Mockingbird_ in his second year, then he was Enjolras in _Les Miserables_ and Reverend Hale in _The Crucible_ in third year. He took a break from theatre for his fourth year because of the Tournament, but after four years of this—" She gestured around the terminal, not just at the gate and the still milling crowds, but the motes of dust disturbed by the Aurors and AIM itself, three thousand miles away. "Archie can make a thousand people weep from a stage, so please don't say he isn't a good actor."

"Is that so?" Lord Black's genuine good humour had disappeared, and he was looking away. "I … didn't know."

"Archie said that he hadn't told his family a lot about his life at AIM," Hermione supplied, then she hesitated and sighed. Archie hadn't said so explicitly, but he had been so excited about telling his dad all about his life at AIM. "If you want, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you went through his trunk? I think it would tell you a lot about him. Archie… Archie loves AIM, and he loves theatre, especially Shakespeare and musicals, and anything dramatic, he lives off the intense scenes where he can drag on the audience's heartstrings and make people cry. He reads a lot, both fiction and non-fiction – I think his favourite book might be Cosmos, by Carl Sagan, but he also had a phase where he made me go and get the collected works of Martin Luther King Jr. for him because he was in detention for getting into too many fights over creature rights. He has a special love for science fiction, and I've seen him read a lot of Philip K. Dick, but he'll read just about any fiction novel he can get his hands on, even Francesca's stupid Regency romances. He loves movies, especially action flicks, like James Bond, and romcoms, because he's a romantic idiot and loves clichés. And he likes milkshakes more than any reasonable person should—"

She cut herself off, coughing. She hadn't meant to say that much, and she could feel herself blushing. Damn it. She hated it when she blushed. Lord Black was listening attentively, a small smile forming on his face.

"I should get going." She cleared her throat and looked away. "My parents will be waiting for me on the Muggle side – I asked them to meet me there, it's safer for us. I'm sure I will see you soon."

She turned to go, straightening her messenger bag on her shoulder, heading towards the portal into the Muggle world, but it wasn't long before Lord Black was loping along beside her. "Wait, Hermione," he said, and she glanced at him, not breaking her stride. "I was going to invite you to dinner – with Lily and James, too. Tomorrow night? I need to go spring my son from his holding cell, but we'd love to have you."

Archie had said she should expect an invitation, so this didn't come as a surprise. Archie would probably be out by tomorrow afternoon, anyway; the Aurors weren't allowed to do anything to question him once he invoked his absolute right to silence, so there wasn't much point in holding him. And Archie had counted on both Percy Weasley and his Dad getting him out on bail in relatively short order. She hoped he was doing all right.

"Yes, of course," she said, nodding firmly. "12 Grimmauld Place, Archie told me. I'll see you tomorrow."

XXX

Archie curled up against the wall of his holding cell. So far, the experience of prison was much better than he thought it would be. He had been tossed in with a few others: Thomas Landry, who was in for a theft charge that he swore had been a frame job; Geoffrey Baker, who was accused of assaulting someone in Diagon Alley and who was actually quite upfront that he had done it because the person had deserved it; and Ulysses Todmorden, who was in for forging family trees, which Archie wholeheartedly approved of in the current political environment.

"I'm pureblood, though – five generations of witches and wizards, and _that's_ not forged." Ulysses' grin was vindictive. "This is my second charge of forgery, but since the maximum sentence is only a hundred galleons, I'll just pay it. I have a job at Gringotts, so the goblins don't care what I do with my personal life and won't care as long as I can still identify counterfeits for them."

"I'm in for aiding and abetting in blood identity theft and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft," Archie supplied cheerfully from his spot on the floor. Geoff had taken a few injuries in his fight, including a broken nose, and Archie itched to Heal him. They had taken his wand, though, so he couldn't. Instead, all he could do was correct the angle of the poor man's nose by hand so it would heal straight, then give him one of the two bunks so he could take the weight off his likely-sprained and possibly broken ankle. Landry had taken the other tiny bunk – he was worried about his family, so Archie left him to it. Archie would be fine on the floor.

"We know," Ulysses said with a bit of a grin. "We read the interview."

"The _Daily Prophet_ version, or the _American Standard_ version?" Archie quipped. Predictably, the _Daily Prophet _had censored his interview outrageously – they had cut almost everything he had said about Harry, leaving in just enough for him to admit what he and Harry had done. But he had done a good job of being sympathetic throughout, and since they had left in how Archie and Harry had done it, Harry's brilliance had still shone through. "The bootlegged _American Standard_ version is better, I promise."

Ulysses laughed. "Both, actually. The bootlegged _American Standard_ version didn't have the picture."

"Well, a picture is worth a thousand words, they say." Archie nodded sagely. "But at that rate, the _American Standard_ version was still better. So, how long have you all been here?"

"Eh, Landry's been here about a day, he's a wuss and keeps whinging about his family. Geoff and I have been here a couple days – thanks for fixing his nose, by the way, he was snoring something _awful_ last night." Ulysses shrugged. "Really, you shouldn't even be here – you're noble, you're entitled to a more comfortable holding cell. Alone, if you want it. They tossed you in here to scare you."

"Should I be scared?" Archie tilted his head, frowning a little. They hadn't done anything to him yet. Really, they all seemed very tame.

"Geoff's probably the most violent one they have in here right now – he's got a record as long as your arm, and it's mostly assaults, assault with a weapon, that sort of thing—"

"I only fight people who deserve it though," Geoff said from his bunk. "He beat my sister. Again. Aurors won't do shit because we can't prove our blood status and he's a pureblood so I took it into my own hands. Again. He's a fucking bastard, and I want her to leave him, but she won't because of money and shit. They got kids, and the courts will rule against her because we aren't pureblood, and the fucking employment laws. Every time I see him, I just… I lose it, okay?"

"Wizarding law is really bad about domestic violence, worse than Muggle law that way." Ulysses nodded, a little sadly. "Anyway, my point is, Geoff's got a bit of a reputation for fighting, and he's big, so they probably thought that was enough." He leaned back against the wall beside Archie, stretching his legs out.

The cell was small, and Archie and Ulysses were sitting, shoulder to shoulder, at the foot of Geoff's tiny bunk. Landry's bunk was against the back wall, forming an L-shape with Geoff's bunk, and there was a corner with a toilet and sink at the foot of his bed. The rest of the cell was just bare space – Archie thought if he needed to sleep, he would probably have to do it sitting up, especially if Ulysses took the floor in the middle. Landry kept sobbing, every now and then – Archie's heart went out to him, but he didn't know what to say. Maybe he could promise to get an owl out to his family when he got out.

"You know a lot about Muggle law, then?" he asked, lowering his voice and turning towards Ulysses. "You sound like it."

"Not really." Ulysses snorted, looking away. He was silent for a minute, then he leaned over to whisper in Archie's ear. "My wife's a Muggle. I met her in a pub, when I went out to the Muggle world – she was so beautiful, Arch, and so friendly. Still is, too, and we got two kids to prove it. I got started in forgery when I had to forge her papers so we could get married, fifteen years ago. We say she's a Squib, and that's bad enough – but our kids can go to Hogwarts, and that's more than most can say."

"I see," Archie said, smiling sadly. "Shouldn't you be careful about the forgery, then? Couldn't they stop your kids from going to Hogwarts if your record is too much?"

Ulysses sighed, looking away. He was quiet again. "Yeah, but I can't just… you know, they come to me, and every time, the stories just get me. A good family tree, for someone non-noble, that works _wonders_ – it gets your kid into Hogwarts if no one looks too closely, it gets you a better job. And I _know_ that, which makes it hard to say no. Brianna understands. We have contingency plans."

"I get it." Archie nodded slowly, thinking it over. "You can't help but want to help, however you can."

"Yeah." Ulysses looked up, then leaned back again. "Anyway, I know a bit of Muggle law. British Muggle law is a lot better for women – domestic assaults are taken more seriously, and marital rape is recognized, there. Women don't become the property of their husbands under Muggle law."

"I would hope that domestic assaults and rape didn't happen a lot." Archie winced, looking away. "But something tells me I'm being idealistic and naïve, again."

Ulysses burst into laughter. "That you are. In the Muggle world, they say it's one in ten – one in ten women will experience violence at the hands of their intimate partners. If you want my guess, it's higher in our world."

"That's horrible." Archie shivered – partly from the new knowledge, partly because it was cold in the cell. "Do you mind if I cast a Warming spell? It's a bit brute force, but I'm freezing."

Ulysses raised an eyebrow. "Not at all, it does get cold at night in here. I'm surprised they're not giving you a blanket. They let you keep your wand?"

Archie laughed. "Of course not. I've got my pocketwatch, and that's it. Maybe they were hoping Geoff would mug me for the silver in my pocketwatch. One of my friends is a paper-caster. She taught me the rune for fire, so it won't be like a Warming Charm – she said it would be more like sitting by a fire, for as long as the spell lasts."

"Works for me," Ulysses said, moving his legs so Archie could scramble forward, picturing the rune in his head as he traced it out on the floor. Chess always said that the magic was in your head – when you were a runic caster, on a certain level you _became_ magic, so she could flick spells off once she had it pictured in her head with enough focus. He couldn't do that, so he licked his finger instead and used his saliva to trace the rune, huge, on the stone floor. Once he could see it, it was easy for him to channel his magic through it and soon they had what felt like a nice campfire at their feet. He breathed a sigh of relief – the warmth was nice, and he leaned forward to warm his hands.

"You have _got_ to teach me that," Geoff groaned from his bed. "I'm in here often enough and I am _done_ being cold. I mean, _fuck_."

Archie laughed. "Happy to. It's just one rune – I'd write it out for you if you had paper or something, but you can just memorize the picture on the floor. It's like any runic spell – you draw it out, and you channel your magic through it, and boom, fire! Or something that feels like it, anyway. Usually lasts a few hours, so you'll still wake up freezing if one of us doesn't get up an renew the spell."

"Ugh…" Geoff struggled up, squinting and scowling ferociously at the rune for a couple minutes. "I think I got it. Four strokes – something like an upside-down y, then two little lines to make it like a star. It even looks like a campfire, which helps. I think I got it – wake me up when it goes out, then I can try."

"Sure," Archie agreed. He pulled out his pocketwatch – it was past nine at night, but he was still wide awake with the jetlag. He should try to sleep anyway, since tomorrow would probably be early, and this was about as comfortable as he was going to get. He told himself that his makeshift corner with the bunk and the wall was _comfortable_ and shut his eyes. "I'm going to try to catch a few winks. Wake me up if the rune goes out and you need help restarting it."

It was a rough night. There was no way around it, and the stone walls of the holding cell seemed to exude cold. Archie woke up every couple of hours, and his neck and back was a mess of cramps. If he had his wand, he could have done something about that, but he didn't, so all he could do was shift positions and hope that helped. He woke up Geoff once, so the big man could try the fire rune. Geoff, squinting in concentration with two black eyes, struggled to get the rune right, but got it working on his fifth try.

"Useful, that," Geoff said, heating his hands and feet near the rune. "I like it. Thanks, Arch. You want the bunk?"

"No, you still need to lie down. I'm fine." Archie yawned, curling up on his side close to the rune. Ulysses had drawn his legs up and was sleeping with his head in his arms, so there was just about enough room for Archie to curl up on the floor by the rune in the fetal position. "Healer's orders. Just pay it forward."

"Will do."

Two hours later, it was Ulysses who woke up and reset the fire rune, only taking a couple tries to get it right, then it was Archie was got up to reset it after that, near four in the morning. He was finally, finally feeling exhausted, the jetlag and mental drain of the day catching up to him as he curled up, again, at the foot of Geoff's bunk and fell asleep.

He woke up to a gentle prodding on his backside and sat up, his entire back an ache. He had a weird, bleary sort of feeling – he had fallen asleep, but he couldn't tell if he had slept _too much_ or if he hadn't slept _enough_. His head ached, a little, and he wrinkled his brow.

"Wake up," Ulysses said, voice gentle. Archie slowly sat up, trying to work the kink from his neck the No-Maj way. "Your lawyer's here – you got bail."

"You put the _Black Heir _in the general population?" The voice was a melodious tenor, but its tone was icy. He blinked, shaking his head slightly.

Archie had met Percy Weasley once before, but not in this guise. In his sharp, navy blue dress robes, Percy cut an intimidating figure, pinning the shaking junior Auror in front of him with a piercing, icy-blue gaze. "Auror Goldfinch, you are _aware_ that this constitutes an infringement of his rights as the heir to a Book of Gold family? He is entitled to having some basic comforts, like a pillow and blanket. And his own bed."

"It's fine, Percy!" Archie called out, struggling to his feet, rubbing his eyes and adopting his sharp, noble accent again. "My cellmates were very kind to me. Have you any news?"

The barrister turned to face him, a slight smile coming onto his face. "Your father posted bail, and I was able to negotiate your release on house arrest," he replied succinctly, turning back to the junior Auror beside him and directing her to open the cell with one pointed tilt of his head. The Auror fumbled with the keys to the cell. "You may rest assured that the Lord Black will be apprised of the conditions in which you kept his son. Rigel, we'll discuss when we are back at your house."

So that they could be sure no one was listening, Archie realized. He turned back to his cellmates. "Is there anything I can do for you all?"

"You've done a lot already," Geoff replied, voice gruff. "Get out of here, kid."

"We'll be fine," Ulysses added kindly, and his eyes had the light of belief in them as he looked at Archie. "Go and do what you've got to do."

Archie nodded, and glanced back at the back bunk. "Um, Mr. Landry?"

There was silence from that bunk, and the soft noise of exhausted, sorrowful, sleep. "Don't worry about him," Ulysses said finally. "He'll be fine. Just the shock of being arrested and charged for the first time, that's all. We'll tell him you worried."

"Thanks." Archie nodded once, at Ulysses and Geoff. "Good luck!"

He followed Percy, out of the Auror holding cells, through the wizarding courts, where he was allowed to pick up his wand and sign the forms promising not to flee the jurisdiction and to attend court. It was good, having his wand back, but he felt gross, not having taken a shower in the last day. He ran one hand though his hair, messing it up, feeling the grease that had collected in it. He made a face.

"We'll be back at Grimmauld Place shortly," Percy said, his voice terse, eyes roving everywhere as they exited the courts. He offered his arm, which Archie grabbed onto gratefully, letting him Side Along Apparate him home.

Archie had never been so glad to see his townhouse. The exterior had always been rather gloomy, a throwback to the old days when the Blacks were Dark, both magically and politically, when they had stood with the other blood supremacist families. Dad had redone the entire interior, taking down the house-elf heads (far too gruesome, Mum had always said, for a house with _children_), all the old portraits, and removing all the most dangerous heirlooms. Those were, the ones that couldn't or shouldn't be destroyed, hidden in the attic or in their vault at Gringotts. He would change the outside of it, he thought – Dad had done so much to change their reputation, and Archie would do the rest.

He smiled, looking down at the lime-green snakes that were slithering up to his shoes, sniffing at him. He couldn't tell what they were saying, the way that Harry could, but he didn't mind them so much now. They tickled at him, hissing. He leaned down, patting at the littlest one and murmuring apologies that he couldn't understand them.

Then the door to Grimmauld Place cracked open, and Archie saw his Dad.

"Dad!" he shrieked, before he jumped over the snakes and lunged for him, as if he was a much younger boy. He had only seen him, what was it, six months ago? Over the holidays. But it felt like so much longer than that – it felt like Archie had gone away to AIM for the first time, almost four years ago, and he hadn't come back until now, like he hadn't seen his _Dad_ since then, not _really_. Every interaction with Dad since that time had been under a _role_, covered with _who Archie had to be_, and it was only now that Archie could see him and just _be_. "Dad, _Dad!_"

Dad couldn't swing him around anymore, like he would have when he was younger. Archie was only a few inches shorter than him now, and he heard the slight _oof_ his Dad made when Archie collided with him, full force. His eyes were leaking, into Dad's shoulder, and he was making soft hiccoughing noises as he sobbed. They weren't sad tears, but happy ones, because whatever else was going on, he was _himself_, and he had _Dad_. And there would be Hermione there soon too, as soon as he managed to Floo-call her or write her, and John and Chess would be there within a week, they had said, and it didn't matter what happened because he was _himself_ and everything would be all right.

"Easy there, pup," Dad muttered, patting him on the back, and Archie knew from the way he sounded that he was teary too. "You're bigger than you used to be."

"Dad," Archie sobbed, before pulling back to look his father in the eye. It lasted all of fifteen seconds before he grabbed his Dad and pulled him in for another hug. "Oh, Dad. I missed you so, so much. You can't believe how much I missed you – it feels like I haven't been home in _forever_."

"Yeah," Dad replied softly, a little unsure, and Archie pulled back again, tilting his head slightly as he looked his Dad in the eye. Dad's eyes were teary too, but his expression was a little confused, so Archie smiled. He supposed it would take a few days for him to get used to Archie as he was now, even knowing about the ruse. And he had to have so many questions.

Archie would be ready to answer them. After a coffee, and a shower, and a change of clothes. "I'm sorry, Dad – I'm kind of gross, right now. Didn't get a chance to shower since I left AIM, and I'm still in yesterday's clothes, and I'm kind of jetlagged, still."

"Sure, Arch." Dad nodded to Percy, behind him, and Archie realized he had left the lawyer behind him. "Percy, would you like to come in?"

"Please," the barrister said, a little stiffly. "These snakes are… disconcerting. It'll be a short meeting only today, Rigel, I know you must be tired after a night on the floor of the holding cells."

"You get used to the snakes," Archie turned and grinned broadly, waving for Percy to come in. "Oh, and it's Arch, or Archie, not _Rigel_. Rigel was what Harry called herself, because I never liked the name. It helped her differentiate between herself when pretending to be me, and me. Come on in, and thanks for the save. Dad, did Hermione catch up with you? She told you about the legal fund, right?"

"Yes, but I covered it myself," Dad replied, holding the door open politely for Percy to come in, while Archie meandered off to the kitchen. There was coffee already brewed, and it smelled _divine_, so Archie poured himself a mug and offered the pot to both Dad and Percy, who had followed him there. Percy shook his head, but Dad accepted it. Archie pulled out the milk from the cooling box – maybe he could talk Chess into making a No-Maj _refrigerator_, with a _freezer_, work in a magical household if he asked nicely enough – and fished the sugar out from the upper cabinets. Dad's voice was a little surprised as he watched Archie pour both into a half-mug of coffee. "Milk and sugar, Arch?"

"Black coffee was my trigger," Archie replied absently, humming happily as he made his coffee with half-milk and two spoons of sugar. "Part of my role when _I_ played Rigel Black. Not me."

"Oh."

Archie sat down at the table, drinking in a deep gulp of his milky coffee. It was good – exactly the way he liked it. Milk and sugar cut the bitterness of coffee, but he could still _just_ taste the notes of caramel and toffee. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was so _nice _to be home. "So, Percy, what do I need to know? What do you want to know?"

Percy shook his head, serious. "I've negotiated your release on house arrest, but the Ministry is pushing this case very aggressively. Right now, their plea offer says they'll cut the usual fine by a third for a guilty plea, and they want the trial next month. They've already led the preliminary inquiry _in absentia_ and found enough evidence to proceed based on your interview, so if you don't plead guilty, it will be a full trial before a panel of the Wizengamot, as is your right. There will be a Law Lord there to instruct them, but in a case like this, which is so overtly political, a lot will depend on who is selected."

"I'm not pleading guilty." Archie shook his head firmly. "Make them work for it. Is there any way we can argue about it? I'd prefer to get _off_, if I can – use whatever loophole you want."

Percy paused. "Did you do it, Archie?"

"Do you mean, did Harry and I switch places?" Archie raised his coffee to his lips and drank again. Coffee was good. "Yeah, we did. Do I admit that I was wrong to do it? No, I don't. I don't think what I did was wrong. Percy, you _knew_ Harry – you knew Harry better than you know me, because I've only met you once, when Harry brought me to the Burrow. You know Harry was happy at Hogwarts, that she belonged there in a way that I never would have."

Percy sighed. "Even so, under the law, that constituted blood identity theft. Harry was not allowed to go to Hogwarts because of her blood status – by doing so, and by masquerading as you to do it, she meets the elements of the offence of blood identity theft. By allowing her to use your name, you aided and abetted her in committing blood identity theft, and both of you conspired to commit blood identity theft together. It will be very hard for me to argue otherwise."

"Even so, I want you to do it." Archie looked up, meeting Percy square in the eyes. He smiled – not broadly, but a soft, genuine smile. "Harry said you would be a great lawyer, and I believe in you. If it helps at all, I invoked my absolute right to silence, and the reporter I spoke to, Conal, isn't going to come to Wizarding Britain to testify."

"That doesn't help." Percy sighed again. "Because you have the absolute right to silence, your interview will be presumptively admissible unless I am able to argue that it is somehow unreliable. I might be able to do it, based on how the article was transmitted, to the Daily Prophet, but I would need to consider it further. As should you."

Archie pursed his lips. That was a little unexpected; Hermione had thought it would be much easier to toss the interview. And having the interview declared _unreliable_ was not a result that they would want, either. "I'll think it over more. Can you think up other defenses?"

"I can, but they won't be good ones," Percy replied grimly. "I will think about it, but if you did the switch, I do strongly recommend that you plead guilty. Even if you don't take the plea deal, if you plead guilty, I can make arguments to reduce the fine. The usual fine on conviction is fifteen hundred galleons, you know."

"Arch, you should really think it over," Dad said, his voice a little cautious, considering. "It's… not a bad offer."

"No." Archie smiled sympathetically at the barrister. Dad would understand, once he explained. "Percy, I promised in my interview that I'd advocate against the blood purity laws. This is just a part of that. Do your best – if they railroad me, they railroad me. That's what we expected would happen anyway, but I want a spectacle just as much as they do. Dad, don't worry about the fine – the BIA legal fund has it covered. I'm a _test case_."

Percy shook his head. "Well, we have a month, and I think you need some time to think it over. I will try to come up with potential ideas for defenses for you, but I can't promise they will be good ones. I will be by in a few days for a more formal client interview with you, but for now, please – rest."

"Sure," Archie agreed easily, finishing off his mug of coffee and reaching for the coffeepot, milk and sugar to make his second one. He was bone-tired, even with, by his guess, at least six hours of very interrupted sleep. "I'll be happy to talk to you further. Whatever you want to know."

Percy nodded, standing up. "Lord Black," he said politely. "I can show myself out, if you would prefer. I'm sure you would like to speak with your son."

"I'll be here if you want to walk him out, Dad," Archie supplied cheerfully. "I'm going to need a shower and a change of clothes before I'm ready to talk anyway. But there's _so much_ I need to tell you! _Days_ of stories, Dad. And I want to call Hermione, too. She's my girlfriend, Dad, did she tell you?"

"She did," Dad confirmed, standing up. "I'll show you out, Percy, with my thanks. Arch…" He paused, and Archie smiled, reassuring.

"I'll be here," he repeated, raising his mug of coffee to his lips with both hands. "Right here, drinking a _vat_ of coffee. Coffee, shower, clothes."

Dad nodded and disappeared. Archie breathed in the silence for a minute, smelling the warm scent of coffee.

It was so nice to be home. This was the coffee, the coffeepot that Mum had brought with her when she married Dad, when she had gotten Dad hooked on it and Archie, of course, had practically grown up on the stuff. Here was the stove, the oven, where Mum and Dad had spent so many evening cooking together, where Archie learned to make his first breakfasts. Here were the cabinets, that he and Harry would play in, when they were young, and there was the burn on the floor from when he was seven and tried to bake a cake, and there were the misshapen bowls that they had all made when Mum decided they should try a pottery class together. Here was the kitchen where they made a family, where they had made a home.

There was no place like home.

Dad was back before he knew it, and Archie stared at him over the rim of his coffee mug, just taking in the sight of him. Dad didn't seem to know what to say to him, and they stared at each other for several long minutes, while Archie nursed his second coffee of the day.

He did look so much like Dad, Archie thought proudly. There were parts of him that were different, that were clearly _Mum_, but his key facial features all came from Dad. He was a slightly wonky, much younger, Sirius Black, and he loved it. They had the same eyes, the same delicate nose, the same black curls, even if Archie kept his hair cropped shorter.

"I looked in your school trunk," Dad said finally. "Your girlfriend said you wouldn't mind. I invited her for dinner tonight."

Archie blinked, a little surprised. Not at the dinner invitation, he had expected that, but Hermione had told Dad to look in his school trunk? She wasn't wrong, he supposed, setting down his coffee mug – he didn't mind. He had been so excited about showing Dad _everything_, and it made no difference that Dad had peeked into it early. He grinned cheekily. "Did you find anything interesting?"

"Four AIM sweatshirts, including three that can't possibly fit you anymore, an AIM Triwizard Team jacket, a lot of books I've never heard of and other things I don't recognize." Dad's voice was deadpan. "Hermione said your favourite book was called _Cosmos_ so I picked it out and got through about a third of it."

"Did she?" Archie tilted his head to one side, thinking about it. "I guess I do like Carl Sagan a lot, but I don't think I really have a favourite? I like most things I read. It depends on my mood, really – if I want to feel a sense of wonder, I read Carl Sagan. If I'm feeling hopeful or I want inspiration, I like Martin Luther King Jr. If I want something to challenge me, I read science fiction, if I want adventure I usually read fantasy, and if I just want something light and happy, I read romance." He paused, picking up his coffee mug again. "Do you want any recommendations?"

"I think eventually I'll want to read everything," Dad replied slowly, frowning. "I just… I don't even know where to begin, Arch. Where do I even start asking you questions?"

Archie smiled, lifting his now half-full cup of milky coffee and downing it. "Why don't you take the fifteen minutes I spend showering and changing and make a list. Start wherever you want."

XXX

Hermione got off the tube the Caledonia Road Station in Islington, stepping onto a narrow, somewhat run-down platform. She could have Flooed easily, but she was cautious of the Floo, nowadays. Some of the other newblood and halfblood families were beginning to remove themselves from the Floo network for security reasons, and she couldn't say that they were wrong to do so. For Hermione, who couldn't Apparate yet, the Floo was unfortunately a necessity for getting into and out of Wizarding Britain quickly, so a complete disconnect just wasn't possible.

That didn't mean that she couldn't take certain other precautions. She had Flooed into Diagon Alley but had taken the tube from Leicester Square Station. It was only an extra half hour, between the five stops and the walks, and now the Floo logs would only show that she went to Diagon Alley. The Ministry of Magic would realize, sooner rather than later, that Archie cared about her, and that would make her a person of interest.

Until then, the main advantage Hermione, and most newbloods and halfbloods, had was that they knew how the No-Maj world worked. The employment laws meant that the Ministry of Magic was staffed almost entirely by purebloods educated in at Hogwarts, which meant that only very few people there would even remember or know anything about No-Maj methods of transport. The hope was that mixing in the tube would keep Hermione off the radar, at least for a little longer.

That was the theory, but her senses were still on high alert as she walked the several blocks between the tube station and 12 Grimmauld Place. She was sure that, at some point, the area had been wealthy; it didn't make any sense for the noble, Book of Gold, Blacks to take up residence in a London townhouse that was anything except fashionable. In the many years since then, however, large parts of the area had become distinctly seedy, and Hermione kept her wand close, tucked in a holster on her arm, covered by her zip-up sweatshirt.

A holster. They'd have to get Archie a wand holster at some point. He didn't have one because he had never been interested in duelling. Hermione herself had only gotten one because she had tried out in the Trials, but now that she had one, she couldn't see herself going back. It was extraordinarily convenient – all she had to do was snap her wrist, and her wand was in her hand. And it fit so neatly under No-Maj clothing, too.

The exterior of 12 Grimmauld Place was dark. Archie had always said that he and Dad would clean it up, but they just hadn't gotten around to it. It wasn't as gloomy as Hermione had always imagined it, though; the windows showed the characteristic signs of lighting spells, and she recognized the glimmer of the wards, the heating spells covering the front garden. That was for the snakes, Hermione recalled, because Lord Black had adopted a dozen snakes to celebrate his son's apparent Sorting into Slytherin House.

What a family. She shook her head, her French braid, an attempt to control her hair for the purposes of dinner, flopping heavily on her back, and opened the gate. The snakes came out, hissing at her curiously, but Hermione ignored them in favour of picking her way towards the front door.

The door opened when she was halfway down the path, and Archie stood there, in his favourite AIM sweatshirt, a fresh pair of jeans, and a wide, happy grin on his face. Hermione, recognizing the look, steadied herself for approximately hundred and sixty pounds of teenage boy throwing himself on her.

"Hermione!" Archie shouted, hitting her like a ton of bricks. She staggered only slightly and returned his excited hug with a few pats on his back. He was just so _earnest._

"Hello, Archie." Hermione pulled herself away, looking up at him. They had expected that he would have to spend a night in prison, since their flight had come in after court hours, and that he probably wouldn't be very comfortable. But he looked liked he had borne it well; he was smiling, his grey eyes were lit up in joy, and Hermione pulled her wand out to run a quick diagnostic, just to be sure.

Archie laughed, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. "I'm fine, 'Mione. Just tired."

"And you've had too much coffee," she replied dryly, putting her wand back in its holster. He was right, about his condition – her diagnostic had just told her that he hadn't slept enough the night before, and there were the chemical traces of too much caffeine which was making his heart beat a little faster than normal. Nothing alarming. "Don't drink anymore today, your heart rate is elevated."

"But coffee is _wonderful_." Archie grinned, taking her hand. "Come on, I want you to meet the rest of my family!"

Hermione let Archie pull her along after him, into Grimmauld Place itself. Looking around, the inside was much warmer than the outside, though she still had some questions about the décor choices. The Lord Black had gone with a lot of green and silver, not all of it tasteful. She followed Archie through the hallway, into a warm kitchen. At the doorway, Hermione paused, eyeing rest of Archie's family.

She recognized the Lord Black immediately, nodding at him politely while he flashed her a quick smile and turned his attention back to the pasta sauce on the stovetop. Addy, Archie's youngest cousin, was also easy to pick out. She was about a two and a half years old, now, and she was babbling in a highchair, showing a few even, white teeth. She was a redhead with bright blue eyes, and Hermione smiled at her, waving a little.

The Lady Lillian Potter, formerly known as Lily Evans, leaned over the high-chair, red hair swinging as she murmured something to the toddler. Hermione took a moment to look over one of the BIA's most useful information sources, and one of the legendary victors of the 1975 Triwizard Tournament – she was in her mid-thirties, now, with bright green eyes and milky white skin. She was beautiful, more beautiful than the old black and white _Daily Prophet_ pictures made her out to be when Hermione was searching the archives to find exactly who her friend was supposed to be. For now, though, her expression was tired and worried. The Lord Potter, whom Hermione recognized too from the _Daily Prophet,_ wore the same tired, anxious expression, and his hair was a messy mop of waves on top of his head. He wore spectacles, round ones, perched on top of a narrow, pointed nose.

The last man, who had grey running through his brown hair, Hermione didn't recognize. Still, by the process of elimination, Hermione guessed that he had to be Archie's Uncle Remus Lupin, the werewolf.

"Uncle James, Aunt Lily, Uncle Remus!" Archie interrupted them eagerly. "Meet my girlfriend, Hermione Granger. 'Mione, sit down, here." He pulled a chair out for her.

Hermione sat down slowly in the chair, looking around at the strangers that she had heard so much about and yet had no idea how to address. "The pleasure is all mine," she said simply.

"Hermione," the Lady Potter said, straightening with a kind smile. "I feel like we've heard so much about you. We are so happy to meet you at last. Dinner will be ready in just a few minutes – can I get you anything? Water?"

Hermione fought very hard to stop herself from raising her eyebrow in skepticism. Unless Lady Potter had heard of her through the BIA, she would bet that very little of what they had heard about her was accurate, other than general platitudes. She didn't know Harry Potter at all, and Archie himself had said that he had told his family very little about AIM. Still, she had worked on the strategy for Archie's arrest with the BIA, and for all she knew, Lady Potter _had_ heard of her. "Water would be lovely, thank you."

"I've got it!" Archie bounced over to the counter, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher sitting there and bringing it over to her. She sipped at it, a little uncertainly, as Archie took a seat beside her. "How was your night, 'Mione?"

"Better than yours, I'm sure," Hermione replied, letting a smile of relief pass across her face. Archie was always so good at smoothing over an awkward situation. Hermione didn't like feeling awkward, she liked certainty, she liked knowing exactly where she stood and exactly what to do and exactly what the next steps were, while Archie was great at taking life as it came. "I called the BIA last night, about the legal fund, since your father said he would cover your costs, but they've said that if we run into any difficulties, it'll be fine. We still have the fund open to us if anything happens. How was your meeting with the lawyer?"

"Eh," Archie replied, distracted. Hermione glanced over quickly at Lady Potter, whose expression hadn't wavered but whose eyes were suddenly sharp. "Not as good as we were hoping. Percy said that one of the disadvantages of having invoked the absolute right of silence is that they'll be able to admit the interview easily, unless he tosses it for unreliability. Anyway – he's thinking about other defenses and will be back in a few days, so let's worry more about that then."

Hermione nodded, catching the glance that Archie's dad had exchanged with the eldest Potters. She looked back at Archie, who smiled reassuringly at her and grabbed her hand again. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Don't worry about it, 'Mione – they're still catching up on the details of the ruse, I think. Dad left off asking me about the ruse itself all afternoon, probably because Aunt Lily and Uncle James want to hear. I just spent all afternoon talking about movies and books and things."

"All right," Hermione replied softly, giving his hand a squeeze.

"Sorry Dad, everyone," Archie said, turning back to the rest of his family with a sheepish sort of grin. "Hermione only agreed to go out with me a couple weeks ago, so I'm still stunned at my good fortune."

"Hundredth time the charm," Hermione added dryly, playing along. "Where were my flowers today, hmm?"

"I was in prison, darling." Archie pouted, but he still pulled out his wand, cast the _Orchideous _charm, and presented her with an oversized purple orchid. She reached for it, but he shook his head. "No, let me weave it into your braid. Please?"

"I'm going to look like an idiot," Hermione muttered in reply, but she turned slightly and let him do it anyway.

"You don't look like an idiot," Lord Black said, eyeing the flower with something like approval, a huge pot of pasta sauce in his hands as he set it in the middle of the table. "It looks good!"

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then went out on a limb. Archie loved his Dad, and she had at least met him the day before. "You will have to forgive me, Lord Black, but considering you raised Archie and decorated this house in bright silver and lime green, I don't trust your sense of what looks good."

There was a ripple of laughter through the kitchen, and Archie's Uncle Remus added a huge, steaming bowl of pasta to the table as well. "She's not wrong there, Sirius. Come on, everyone – dig in."

"And just call us by name, Hermione – I'm only _the Lord Black_ to the people I hate." Archie's dad winked at her. "It's just Sirius – and James, and Lily, and Remus." He pointed at each of Archie's family members in turn, and Hermione nodded in understanding.

For a few minutes, the only noises were the sound of clinking cutlery and the occasional request to pass the parmesan cheese, or pepper. The pasta itself was delicious – the spaghetti was past al dente, but that was amply made up with the rich, heavy sauce, studded with mushrooms. There was no meat in it; the meatballs were held in a separate dish.

"Harry used to be a vegetarian," Archie explained, catching Hermione's look. "Though she started eating chicken in the past couple years. We're used to giving her meat-free options for food."

"I see," Hermione replied, twirling noodles around her fork. Archie smiled and nodded, eating his own plate of food with obvious relish.

He really did give a hundred and ten percent to everything he did, Hermione thought. For all that Archie Black frustrated her sometimes, for all that he could play the fool at wholly inappropriate moments, when he did decide to be serious, he put everything he had into it. He was excellent with people, with a sort of artless natural charisma, and he always tried to make sure everyone around him was at ease, happy. He was _kind_, and since Hermione didn't think of herself as being _kind_ (she was too fiery and brash to be kind, really), she couldn't help but be drawn to it.

After awhile, James Potter began asking Archie questions – about the ruse, about Harry, about the why and the when and the how. Archie answered everything, without embellishment. He was getting used to answering these questions, Hermione thought, sneaking her hand into his for support – on some level, this wasn't Archie talking anymore, but the polished and shining Arcturus Rigel Black they had developed for the interview. He was solid, strong, unashamed – he was honest, admitting that even if it was Harry's idea, he had gone along with it all willingly. No, he didn't regret what he had done. Yes, he planned on standing trial, drawing attention to the _injustice _of pureblood supremacy – too many people had suffered for a meaningless system, and with his position of privilege, he had the obligation to do something about it.

His voice was nice. He was often eager, excited, but when he was calm and explaining things, he really did have a very nice voice. It was even, a gentle sort of tenor, heartfelt and sincere. It became a little more childish when he was excited, when he started talking a mile a minute, but even then Hermione couldn't help but be swept up in his enthusiasm.

"No, Uncle James – I have no idea where she is, sorry." Archie's voice was genuinely apologetic. "She did contact me once through the mirror, and she said she was fine – better than fine, actually. I told her not to tell me anything in case they used Veritaserum on me."

"They're not allowed to use Veritaserum on you, Archie." James ground his teeth a little in frustration.

"They're also supposed to put him in a comfortable holding cell with basic comforts, James, and they didn't," Sirius cut in with a frown. "From what Percy tells me, he found Arch sleeping on the floor of gen pop with someone in on his seventeenth assault with a weapon charge. Not even a blanket."

"Hey, Geoff was cool." Archie waved a hand, unconcerned. "He's just in on assault because his brother-in-law beat his sister and he went and got revenge. I wasn't in any danger and they tried to make it comfortable for me."

"He's a bruiser with anger management issues." Sirius shook his head, a heavy frown coming across his face. "You were entitled to a bed with a mattress, sheets, a pillow and blanket, a pitcher of water, and so on."

"Well, you can't miss what you never had, so it doesn't matter. But really, the company was appreciated." Archie shrugged philosophically. "Why should I be entitled to better, anyway? Just because I'm noble?"

There wasn't really an answer to that, though the adults around the table exchanged glances. Hermione suppressed a scowl – the proper answer was that everyone was entitled to better and the law of privilege was stupid, but no one wanted to say it.

"Moving on, then – can you contact her, Arch? Through the mirrors?" James' voice was hopeful, and Hermione gave Archie's hand a squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Archie said softly, and he was genuinely sorry. "The mirrors are linked. You can track her mirror from mine, so by this point, she's probably either destroyed it, or she's abandoned it somewhere as a decoy. I'll give you mine, though, if you want it, just in case."

There was an awkward pause, before Archie's Uncle Remus spoke up. "James, Harry will be fine. She is… unusually well-equipped and she can defend herself. Remember that all the things that we believed happened to Archie actually happened to her – she is strong, and she'll find a way. She's not just your little girl anymore."

James looked down, lips tight, and Hermione felt a little sorry for him. She glanced over at Lily, who was looking thoughtful, considering, as she checked on Addy. Addy had managed to spread pasta sauce all over her hands and her face, and Lily cleaned her up with a wordless charm.

"Archie spent all afternoon telling me about his time at AIM," Sirius said, manfully changing the topic. "Did you know that Muggles have been to the moon?!"

XXX

Archie woke up the next morning, after a full night of rest, with only one thought in mind. He had told Dad a lot about his life at AIM yesterday – he had talked about science, and movies, and theatre. He had even performed a soliloquy for him, though Dad wouldn't get the full impact of a play from just a soliloquy. He hadn't even picked one of his own performance soliloquys – he had always been partial to the St. Crispin's Day speech in _Henry V_, though he doubted he would ever get to play it. He had let Dad listen to some of his music, making him sit through the nearly three hours of _Les Misérables_ on his CD player while Archie went through his newest script for next year, _Grease_, figuring out who he would audition for and how he would play them, taking notes with a pen at the kitchen table in a fresh notebook. Then, over dinner, they had talked about the ruse itself – they had talked about when he and Harry had switched, how they had done it, why they had done it. But there was one thing he hadn't told Dad about yet, and it was very important that he do it.

He pulled a box out from his trunk and walked it downstairs. It was a heavy box, stuffed with scrolls of parchment, still lined with his and Hermione's magical bookmarks, and a few Pensieve memories. It was more full now than before – he, Hermione and Daine had all shoved their notes on top of the parchment scrolls, and he had added his No-Maj Medicine I textbook too, a post-it note marking the insert on multiple sclerosis. He wished he had books specifically on the disease, but all his reference books for his research had been borrowed at AIM, and he had never gotten copies of his own.

"Dad?" he called out, walking into the kitchen, box in his arms. His dad was there, with the Daily Prophet open and a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. "Dad, I need to talk to you."

"What about, Arch?" Dad folded the newspaper up and tossed it in the fireplace, and Archie dropped his box on the kitchen table. Dad eyed it cautiously for a minute – Archie knew that Dad could see the heavy black letters on it, _Diana Black_, just as well as he could. "What's this?"

"Mum's records from St. Mungo's," Archie replied grimly.

"And why would you have them, Archie?" Dad reached out with one slightly unsteady hand, popping open the top of the box and seeing the textbook and sheaf of lined paper on top. "I don't…"

"Better not to ask that, Dad." Archie shook his head. "Plausible deniability. I got them because… well, because I took No-Maj Medicine I when I was in third year, and I got an idea. Here." He reached for the textbook, flipping to the marked pages, and held them out for his Dad to read.

Dad was quick about it, skimming the words and a heavy frown coming across his face. "Archie… We don't know, we couldn't—"

"No, Dad." Archie cut him off with a wave of his hand. "That's why I had to get the records. I looked into it – Hermione and I did, and then I pulled in one of my upper-year friends who specializes in complex care and cases like this. We reviewed it, as closely as we could, and my friend Daine found confirmation in the Pensieve memories. The Healers didn't know what they were looking for but still saw the lesions, they just didn't know what it meant. It's... it's as certain as it ever gets, Dad. Mum died of multiple sclerosis, an aggressive form, but… but had we known, had our Healers found it…"

"They couldn't have known though, Arch." Dad's hands were pale, holding his book, and there was a frightening expression on his face – there was shock, there was denial, there was heartrending sorrow. "This must be new, or… or—"

"The first wizarding case of MS was identified in the 1950s." Archie's voice was soft. "For Muggles, the illness is not uncommon – it's rarer for witches and wizards, but it was known. In America, Daine says that they would have taken months to diagnose it, but they _would_ have diagnosed it. Then they would have started treating it. We don't know how Mum would have responded, because she never had the chance, but a lot of Muggles live for decades with this illness, and even witches and wizards are estimated to survive a decade, once diagnosed. The – the late diagnosis really impacts us."

He paused, because Dad's face was blank, frighteningly so, then he took a deep breath. Dad had to know. This was _important_, and Dad had to know, because Dad wouldn't understand why Archie had to do what he was doing now without it. Standing trial, changing the world, it wasn't just for Harry and Hermione and Derrick and Isran and for the newbloods and halfbloods who would benefit in in the most obvious ways.

It was for himself, too. Mum had died of a treatable condition, which Healers in Wizarding Britain hadn't known about, because they didn't put any importance or emphasis into learning about the Muggle society around them. Had they lived in a country where they were more _integrated _into the Muggle world, where they knew about _science_ and _medicine_ and where Muggle things weren't automatically dismissed, then Mum would have been diagnosed. She would have been treated. She wouldn't have been _cured, _but Archie and Dad would have had more time with her.

He had promised himself, long ago, that he would become a Healer so that people didn't have to go through what he had gone through. They wouldn't need to watch someone they loved wasting away, without a diagnosis and a cure. This was no different.

"Mun died of a treatable condition, Dad. That's – that's part of why I have to do this. Pureblood supremacy doesn't just hurt Muggleborns and halfbloods, it also hurts us. I promised myself that I'd become a Healer so that maybe no one would have to go through what we went through, and this is a part of that." Archie took another deep breath and flipped the lid of the box open. He pulled out the notes on top. "My notes, Hermione's notes, and Daine's notes are here. You might want to start with these – we bookmarked most of the key Healing reports, but I don't know that they'll make a lot of sense to you. Um, my notes are the ones in blue ink, here, Hermione's are in black, and Daine's notes are these, the ones with the really cramped handwriting."

Dad hadn't responded. He was staring at the box, at the notes, his face pale. Archie didn't know what to say. Archie had dealt with this alone, but Dad didn't have to. "Do you… want me to walk you through it? Do you want to read it and ask me questions later? Do you want me to stay here with you, or do you want me to leave so you can process? If you want, I can also ask Hermione to find some of the books about MS that I found to be most helpful. Whatever you want, Dad."

Dad looked up at him slowly, seemingly lost for words, and the grief on his face was a punch in Archie's gut. He understood – he had had that too, but for him, it had been a long, drawn-out process where he could try to come to terms with it. He had just dumped it on Dad. He couldn't think of a softer way to do it, not in these circumstances, but that didn't mean he didn't feel bad about it.

"Arch…" Dad sighed, staring back at the box with a grim expression. "Let me – let me read it. I'll come ask you questions when I need to, all right? Alone, please."

"Yeah, Dad. I'll be around." Archie nodded, getting up from the kitchen table. He paused, stopping to give Dad a warm hug, and then he headed for the sitting room.

XXX

Francesca breathed a sigh of relief as John joined her in the tiny airport bookshop, where she was trying to decide whether the exorbitant airport prices justified buying just a few more. She had tried to wait at their gate for him, but people had been watching her, staring at her and her tiny carry-on, and it made her uncomfortable. Most were (_probably?_) well-meaning, because as well as she dressed, she still looked young, and they wanted to know where her family was. They seemed perplexed when she said that she was travelling alone.

"I'm – I'm waiting for my brother," she had stuttered out eventually at a kind-faced, matronly woman with grey hair who simply would not take no for an answer. It wasn't entirely true, but she hoped it would make the woman go away. She would be fine. She could feel John in the direction of the security gates, and he would be there soon.

"Why don't I wait with you, then?" the woman said, taking a seat beside her, and Francesca didn't even remember what she said as she got up and fled. Moving was better – moving meant she could move away from people who probably thought they were being helpful but really weren't. If she put on her headphones, she could pretend like she didn't hear them, either.

People were scary. Francesca didn't really like people, except for a few choice exceptions. Sometimes she wasn't even sure she really liked her exceptions, so much as she tolerated them.

John was an exception, and Francesca estimated that approximately eighty percent of the time, she genuinely liked John. He was a good person, always ready to lend a helping hand, and he was more perceptive and intelligent than he let on. The other twenty percent of the time, he was overbearing, annoying, and more protective than her own parents, who trusted her to do whatever she wanted, as long as she did well in her No-Maj homeschooling curriculum, passed her magic classes, and kept coding like a genius. Or maybe they just trusted John to look out for her.

She liked John more than any of her other exceptions. Archie was an exception too, but she estimated that she only liked him seventy percent of the time, which was better than Hermione's fifty-five percent. Archie often got too excited and he could be overwhelming, but they were both in the AIM arts scene, so they had things in common that she didn't have with John, or with Hermione. Hermione she liked because they shared a lot of No-Maj cultural references, and Hermione was smart and could actually keep up with her advanced magical theory, or science, or technology discussions. But Hermione was always trying to nag her into doing _more – _going to more of the Newbloods Advocacy and Support Organization meetings, getting more involved with the Society for the Advancement of Witches.

Francesca didn't really care for either club. She was a newblood, but the "support" the Newbloods Advocacy and Support Organization had never seemed useful to her. Then there was the Society for the Advancement of Witches.

It wasn't that Francesca didn't agree with the Society for the Advancement of Witches. It was that they didn't always agree with her.

Francesca liked to be pretty, and she liked romance novels. She liked wearing dresses, and she liked makeup, and she liked looking good by conventional standards. She liked the stunned look that she sometimes got when she walked into the room, or when she said hello to new people (mostly because she needed something – otherwise the alarm bells screaming _someone new this is scary why am I talking _would be too loud for her to work through), and she went out of her way to get that look of stunned admiration. And because she did it, sometimes the Society for the Advancement of Witches would make it out like she was _betraying the cause_ or something. She just liked to look good – what was the big deal with that? It made her feel better, like an armour of prettiness that would hold people back, make people think twice about what they wanted to do to her, stop people from being quite so scary.

And Francesca loved romance novels. She was always looking for new ones, especially historical romances, preferably with knights. She liked knights. She would take dukes and viscounts and Scottish lairds and Vikings in a pinch, but she liked knights the most. Fairy tales just went along with knights, really, because what Prince Charming didn't have a sword? And Hermione, and most of the girls in the Society for the Advancement of Witches, hated her books. They said that her romance novels fed into unhealthy beliefs about the world, about relationships, that they were unrealistic and filled with bad tropes.

Once, Francesca had lent Hermione one of her books. She didn't even remember which one it was – was it _A Kingdom of Dreams? _Or maybe it was _Honour's Splendor_? Either way, when Hermione had returned it, she had included a ten-page handwritten essay titled Why This Book Was Bad. And Historically Inaccurate. And Knights Were Basically Gangsters. And Do You Really Want To Be Barefoot And Pregnant In The Kitchen, Francesca?

Francesca had clarified that no, really, she wanted to be barefoot and pregnant in a _castle tower_, thank you very much for asking, Hermione. The look of sheer and utter horror that had crossed her friend's face had been worth it. Hermione didn't get romance.

Francesca felt like she was always _on_ – she always had to be sharp, she always had to be ready for anything and everything. At AIM, she always carried a charged shield spell and a few attack spells on her, even when it seemed like John and her other friends, years too late, had finally terrified her more persistent bullies into leaving her alone. And there was always the demanding push of ACD development – more papers for her to read, more experiments to run, a bigger magical theory problem to bang her head against until either it cracked, or she did. And, on top of that, there was always schoolwork, both for her magic classes and her No-Maj homeschooling program.

Romance novels were her escape. Sometimes, offhand, she wondered if this part of her, the part that John liked to call a princess, the part that loved dance and Disney movies, fairy tales and romance novels, was the Francesca that would have existed if she had had a wand – if she didn't spend the first three years at school ducking not-so-subtle digs at her magic, hiding from people who thought it was funny to cast hexes at her because she didn't have a wand to protect herself with, pretending not to hear the whispered complaints when she got yet another accommodation in class_. _She didn't belong at magic school, they said, and some of them weren't even quiet about it. The rest of her been defined by those years, and she was, she thought, a very different person than she would have been otherwise. More driven, especially on ACD development. More desperate to prove herself, to prove everyone wrong. Less trusting, less kind, more unforgiving. More damaged, maybe even _broken_.

John hated it when she thought like that, and from her mental link to him, she knew that he was quickly approaching. At school, when he caught her at it, he would grab her by both shoulders and his thoughts would yell that she _wasn't_ broken, when would she stop thinking like she was? Then he would demand to know who had been saying whatever it was, so that he could _have a word_ with them, as he called it, digging into her mind for the memory he wanted. And she would snow him with a hundred different painful memories, too many for him to track down and try to _fix_, because whatever he did would make it worse for her later. John would just get himself in detention for another fight, and while he was in detention, they would come hunting _her_.

Here, she wasn't sure what he would do, but it was guaranteed to be unpleasant, so she slid the thoughts under a veil of more immediate concerns, the way she was used to doing. If it wasn't on her surface thoughts, he wouldn't go looking.

"Another one, Chess?" John's voice was a low burr of amusement, and she felt his warm presence behind her.

"It has a knight in it," she replied lightly, picking up the book. _Stardust of Yesterday_. She didn't recognize the author, but the back said that Kendrick was a knight, and that was all she needed. She glanced up at him, prepared for the onslaught of _knowledge_ that would slam into her when she made eye contact.

He was worried about Archie. He said he wasn't, but really, he was, and he was eager to get to England to check on him. He was also worried about her going to Wizarding Britain with him, a wandless, newblood, runic paper-witch, who was just a little out of the ordinary, and he missed his boyfriend in Germany. She knew that he got the same assault of her own thoughts too, some of her own feelings (the ever-present alarm bells from being in a crowd, the annoyance of having to run away from nosy strangers, a sense of relief that he was there) but she didn't worry about it. She and John were special, and they had a special link, and to be honest – she _liked _not having to tell him everything. He just knew.

Words were so inadequate. There were only so many words Francesca could stutter out, and none of them really satisfied her. None of them really encapsulated what she was thinking. Pure thoughts were better.

_If we keep staring at each other like this, people are going to have questions, Chess._

_Fine, fine._ Francesca sighed, skimming the rest of the titles on the shelves. There was a new Lisa Kleypas too, so she grabbed that one, and between those two, _Beauty_ in her bag, and her various Britain travel guides, she was probably fine for a seven-hour No-Maj flight. Especially if _Stardust of Yesterday_ was any good, because then she would probably flip to the front and read it again. "Do you think I should get Archie something? Hermione called me – he's under house arrest now, so he can't go out himself."

John snorted, shifting in thought behind her. "He'll probably read whatever you bring, but sure. Not a huge selection of sci-fi here, though."

"There's a Star Trek book."

"He hasn't watched Star Trek, Chess."

"Fine. _Dune_?"

"Sure, why not?"

Francesca glanced over at him, eyebrow raised. _You have no idea what Dune is, do you?_

_Hell no, but sci-fi is sci-fi. You're both nerds, and it's all the same anyway. Archie will like it no matter what, so can we just get going to the gate?_

Francesca smiled slightly, picking up the book and heading to the checkout station. Two romance novels and _Dune_.

John bought her tea on their way back to the gate. It wasn't _good_ tea, because it was no-name brand airport tea, but tea was nice. If she added enough sugar and milk, she could even hide how low-quality the tea actually was, enjoying it for the milk and sugar alone.

The seven-hour flight into Heathrow International Airport was dull. The seats were uncomfortable, the airplane movies were awful, the food was worse than awful, but at least her new book was good. She wasn't sure how she felt about the football-as-modern-battle thing, but there was a happily ever after ending, and that was important. And Francesca really did, on the whole, prefer boredom in her travel arrangements. After yearly trips to and from Hong Kong as a child, airplanes were predictable, but John had said they would _Floo_ to his great-uncle's house.

Francesca had never taken the Floo before, and she didn't really want to, either. The whole idea of stepping into a burning hot fire and travelling through a sooty, dirty fireplace was terrifying, but John thought she would get over it the first time she did it. It wasn't that commonly used in Wizarding America – the distances were too far, and the MACUSA was so decentralized that having one regulatory authority to manage the Floo system was just unwieldy. The Northeast, where John was from, had some Floo connections, but for the most part mages in Wizarding America Apparated. If they couldn't Apparate, they would Portkey through the nearest Portkey Hub, or, if neither of those worked, they sometimes also just drove. America was built for cars, and mages used the roads as much as their No-Maj neighbours did.

She put that thought away when they started the descent, poking at John until he woke up. _We're here,_ she said, mind to mind, when he opened his eyes. _England. Castles and towers and moats, knights and a thousand years of history!_

He smiled at her. _And Archie_. _Don't forget Archie._

_And Archie. And Hermione. And the Lord Black new people nobility what do I say how do I act can I just do a dancer's curtsey I don't know any other curtseys—_

"Stop," John said, grimacing, and Francesca sucked in a deep breath, wrestling her anxiety under control. It wasn't uncommon that John got hit with one of her more panicked trains of thought, though usually she kept from verbalizing her anxiety on the surface of her mind where John could read it. Usually it was just a worried sort of background buzz. John reached up into the overhead compartment, pulling out her bag and passing it down to her. _Archie's always said his family doesn't do the etiquette thing, it'll be fine. I'll be there._

_You should take some time and take off to Germany for a bit, too. See Gerhardt. Stop mooning._

John grimaced again. _After the trial. I couldn't – not before. What if he needs me? And you, what if you need me? _

_You're so stupidly selfless, John. _Francesca rolled her eyes, standing up as the airplane started disembarking, breaking eye contact. "Let's go find the Underground – my guidebook says the trains come every ten minutes and its about an hour's ride into the city. We get off at a station called Caledonian Road and walk from there. Did you let Archie know when we would get there?"

"Ah…" John scratched the back of his head, and Francesca whipped around to look at him.

_You didn't tell him we were coming?! _

_How could I? He doesn't have a goddamn phone and owl post takes at least five days by fastest owl from America!_

_Mages! _Francesca scowled. Telephones were _century-old_ technology and apparently mages still communicated mainly by owl post. Just like they wore ugly billowing robes. _Stuck in the middle ages! Basically using carrier pigeons! What did they do, choose a random point in time and go yes, this is the best things can possibly be, and try to freeze it?!_

_You love the middle ages, Chess._ John smirked.

_I love the idea of the middle ages. I know chivalry was mostly an ideal. And knights didn't wear robes! Robes are ugly._ She looked away, breaking eye contact.

"Don't worry, knowing Arch, he's probably expecting us anyway." John's expression softened into a gentler smile. "We did tell him we'd be by within the week, and he's under house arrest, where can he possibly go? And anyway, what's the worst that can happen? We can always Floo to Great-Uncle Newt's from Diagon Alley and stop by and visit Archie later. The No-Maj entrance to Diagon Alley is in London."

Francesca took a deep breath, wincing. Her stomach hurt a bit. She _hated_ when things didn't go according to plan. "Okay. Okay. It'll be okay."

"That's right, Monster," John said, his voice encouraging as he slapped her on the back and pushed her ahead of him in the aisle. "We'll get where we're going. Everything is good!"

Finding the Underground was surprisingly easy – everything was well labelled, and she stuck close to John as he navigated the crowds, bought them both tickets, and pushed onto the train. The train was mostly empty, this close to the end of the line, but Francesca kept an eye on the map of the Piccadilly Line as they travelled, stop by stop. Once they got off, Francesca pulled her map out, taking the lead while John was behind her.

The gate to 12 Grimmauld Place was low, but she could pick up the telltale traces of magical warding. These were good wards – her magic hummed in satisfaction as it examined the careful knots. Twenty-two integrated linked spells, Francesca guessed, at minimum. There was an alert spell in it, so the master of the house would know when they crossed the barrier. She halted, just in front of the gate. _New people. _She was sure that Archie's dad was nice (_probably_) because Archie was very nice, but what was she supposed to say to him? _Hello, Lord Black, sorry for dropping by unannounced, we're here to check on your son? _And was she supposed to curtsey or something?

"Don't worry about it, Chess." John smiled down at her. "Just be yourself. Come on, let's not block the sidewalk." With that, he opened the gate and went ahead, and Francesca took a deep breath and followed.

Sirius Black looked almost exactly like Archie, and he was probably _twice_ as overwhelming and terrifying. Where did Francesca begin? Did she start with the moderately frightening snakes that came out of the grass as soon as she walked through the gate, making her shriek, only for the Lord Black to burst out of the house and, remarkably, pick up the snakes to reassure them? Or did she start with the moment that she and John had walked through the front door, only for her to drop and cower in a small ball when Archie launched himself off the stairs at them, expecting to ambush his father with some sort of loud prank product?

He had skidded to an abrupt stop, seeing them, then he had, not reassuringly, hidden the product behind his back while inviting them into the kitchen for tea. "Sorry, we were testing some new pranking products today," Archie said, by way of explanation, and Francesca was decidedly _not _reassured watching him disable no less than four traps on the way.

She was just beginning to calm down, over a big pot of admittedly very decent tea, when John decided to become the _ultimate _betrayer.

"You really don't have to," John said, rubbing one hand awkwardly in his hair. "Chess and I were going to stay at my great-uncle Newt's, you don't have to put us up at all."

"It's no trouble, no trouble at all," Lord Black replied, his voice firmly settling the matter. He stood up to refill the teapot, and Francesca sent a panicked look at John.

_You can't possibly be considering staying here_, she yelled at him mentally. _You said we would stay with your relatives!_

_He's worried about Archie, Chess_. John shrugged a little. _He thinks Archie will cope better with house arrest with some friends around. And he's already made up two bedrooms for us – we won't be in the way, and you'll be closer to all the touristy things you want to see, too._

His reasoning was implacable, but Francesca suppressed a scowl. _I hate you sometimes, John._

He smirked a little in reply. _You never hate me, Monster. Not really_.

At least, she could avoid the Floo for a little longer. And John was right; they were right in the heart of London. The Tower of London, Big Ben, Whitehall, Westminster Alley, the British Museum all waited for her in London, and there were more coffee shops and libraries here where she could break out her laptop and get some work done, so it would be fine.

Probably.

XXX

Staying at Grimmauld Place had been a good idea, John decided, watching Chess fiddle around with her breadboard in the Blacks' friendly kitchen, laying out new circuits in patterns he couldn't begin to understand. Aside from the humming concern that he had heard from Sirius about Archie and the worry John, himself, felt over his friend, Chess wouldn't have done well at the Scamander residence.

He hadn't mentioned the creatures to Chess when he had come up with the plan. There was no need for her to worry about it, as she would have done if he had told her about them, and just like Great-Uncle Newt said, worrying only meant suffering twice. It would be better, he thought, for him to just _surprise_ her with the creatures – they weren't so bad, and Puffskeins and Nifflers were cute, and Great-Uncle Newt knew what he was doing. She would adapt better if she was just confronted with them, he had thought.

He was wrong.

He and Chess had gone over to the Scamander residence for lunch that day, only to find that Great-Uncle Newt had added a few Abraxans to his menagerie of magical creatures, his Kelpie was moody (again) and there were baby Nifflers causing havoc. Even with Rolf around, helping Great-Uncle Newt wrangle the creatures, it was a little overwhelming, and Chess had been _terrified_. Especially of the Kelpie and the Erumpents, but even of the silly little mooncalfs and excitable and adorable pack of baby Nifflers. Damn Wizarding America, and its stance on creatures – he would have to take her over again another time. It would go better the second time, he was sure, but it was probably better that they weren't staying there.

John was pretty sure that messing around with the breadboard was a self-soothing activity of some kind, because he only really saw it come out if she was panicked. If Chess was serious about planning a new design for her ACD, she used graph paper, or at least she kept a pad of graph paper beside her while she experimented with the designs. As far as he knew, nowadays Chess was researching integrated circuits and considering the applicability of microcontrollers, but he didn't think either of those ideas were far enough along that she was ready to plot them her breadboard. That meant there wasn't really much purpose to her fiddling, so she had to be using it as a coping mechanism. Oops.

He heard a rustle from the hallway and looked up. There was a newcomer in the doorway – he was slender, wearing elegant, dark blue robes cut in the Wizarding British style. He was a few inches shorter than John, with dark hair and bright, glowing golden eyes, his whole body vibrating with tension. John straightened, eyeing him closely.

His shields weren't very good – some combination of the American School and the Continental School, self-taught – and John was hit with the newcomer's sense that _this was it, this was the moment he had been building towards, this was his first step into a new world. _The boy – a young man, probably, John would pin him at somewhere between sixteen and twenty – was looking around at the people in the room, identifying Archie (as Arcturus) at a glance and Hermione as the spokesperson for the AIM team in the Triwizard Tournament. His gaze roved over to Chess briefly with no recognition, only a passing thought that she was quite pretty, then moved onto John himself.

There was a moment of eye contact, and John felt the slight resistance as the young man realized who he was and recognized that he was in his mind, then, remarkably, he let him in. _Come on in_, Aldon Rosier thought, and there was a sense almost like a sardonic bow as he dropped his meagre shields and let John into his mind. _Read whatever you need to read._

John hesitated a moment, but when the shields remained open and Rosier's expression remained expectant, he sighed and leapt, drifting gently into Rosier's mindscape.

It was a scene of sharp, snowy mountains, not unlike the Alps, and he felt the sense of crisp, cold air. The tongue of a great glacier reached down between two peaks – Rosier's core, John realized. Rosier's mental avatar pointed him towards an elegant chalet, nestled close to one edge of the glacier, and John mentally motioned for Rosier to go first. Rosier snorted and stalked ahead, opening the door to the chalet for him and waving him through to a warm, comfortable sitting room, with a wall full of books.

The books would be the memories, and John didn't have the time to read them all. Instead, he looked around – he was a Natural Legilimens, and he didn't need to sit and read the books, not unless he needed specific information or a specific memory. It was enough for him to be in the space, to examine the room, and the key pieces of knowledge, the things that Rosier himself found important, rose into his consciousness as he walked around, running his avatar's hands over furniture, the objects in the room.

Aldon Rosier was a noble. He was the Heir to the House of Rosier, a prominent noble house known for their wealth. The Rosiers ranked as the wealthiest family in Wizarding Britain by income generation, though they had less asset wealth than many families. He was well connected in Dark pureblood circles – he had few close friends, but few dared to cross him, either. He was eighteen years old, a fresh Hogwarts graduate. He was strong in Charms, Runes, Ward Construction and Curse-breaking, but he loved magical theory most of all. He had been in Slytherin House at Hogwarts and was proud of it. He was Dark by magic, but not that Dark – only a five on Erlich's scale, like John himself. But he had thought of himself as being Dark for much longer.

Rosier tapped a book, left open on a low coffee table, drawing it to his attention. John picked it up, studying the memories curiously. Rosier was also a friend of Harriett Potter – he had been her strategist in the Triwizard Tournament, he had gotten her out of the graveyard. Then, on a few splotched pages that made John suspect that he had attempted to erase his own memories, he had broken her out of Hogwarts and let her get away. He frowned at the pages of the book, suspicious, and lifted the splotched part for a closer look.

Alcohol. It wasn't a scent, because he was in a mindscape, it was more the idea of a scent. A few thoughts of that time bubbled up – regret, because he knew his best friend Ed would be furious with him, a resigned sense that he would be feeding into what Ed wrongly thought about him. Then an entire bottle of Firewhiskey.

John frowned, glancing at Rosier's avatar; the young man was stone-faced. Suspicious, John stalked over to the wall of books, running a spectral hand over the memories and ordering them to give him exactly what he wanted.

Memories spilled out – not just Firewhiskey, but wine, fairy wine, other liquor, the feelings of needing a drink to cope. There were several Gala scenes, where it seemed that Rosier fully intended to drink himself to distraction, where a bigger boy, _Ed_, would hex him with a Sleeping Curse if he went too far. There were party scenes, in large, low-lying room that John realized had to be the Slytherin Common Room, where Rosier took several shots of Firewhiskey to steady his nerves after something or other. There was a Tournament afterparty, where the only reason he hadn't drunk more was that his friend Ed had lied to him about whether they had any alcohol.

Rosier was an alcoholic.

It wasn't as if Rosier drank every day, meaning it was all too easy for him to lie to himself about his problem. No, Aldon Rosier was a binge-drinker – he drank to cope, and when things got stressful, he would always want a drink. When he did drink, it was never just one, or two, but he drank to get drunk, to forget. The night of Harry's escape, he had intended on drinking to pass out, to forget what he had done.

_That's over_, Rosier snapped at him mentally, razor-sharp as his avatar came to stand between John and the wall of books. _I haven't had a drink since, and the scent makes me ill. I don't think I could drink again. I would throw up._

_You're a liar,_ John snarled back at him, even as he stopped looking at those memories. Not that he couldn't fight his way through to them if he really wanted; John had been a Natural Legilimens since he was _four_, and his experience and facility in the Mind Arts, both Legilimency and Occlumency, were on par with any Master of the Mind Arts. There was no way that a self-taught mage who had only been training his Occlumency for a few weeks would keep him out of whatever he wanted to know. _What other coping mechanisms do you have?_

_I don't know._ Rosier whipped around, pulling a book off his wall of memories and shoving it at John. _But it's not important, because everything has changed. I've changed. Read this one._

John raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical, but opened the book anyway and skimmed the memories.

Aldon Rosier was a halfblood. He was a bastard, the bastard of his father and a Muggleborn woman at his father's company. He was a Truth-Speaker. He was sick to _death_ of pretending to be a pureblood, of being afraid that someone would work out his secret, of being worried about losing his status. He wanted to be himself – he wanted to live a life where he was _not afraid, _at every turn, of being discovered. He wanted to change the world – or, barring that, he would be satisfied to burn it all down.

John exited his mind gracefully with a bit of a snort, letting Rosier pull up his meagre shields again. They were just enough that if John wasn't looking to hear anything, Rosier's thoughts were muted, as if they came from a television playing next door. He leaned over to tap Archie on the shoulder, making him look up.

"Aldon Rosier," John murmured into Archie's ear, gesturing towards the newcomer. "You should hear him out."

Archie nodded, a glint of recognition coming into his eyes as he looked at Rosier. Rosier swept him a low bow – forty-five degrees exactly, the bow of a halfblood to a pureblood, Rosier's memories whispered to him, and John suppressed a grimace. Different etiquette based on status, to forever remind the lesser-blooded of their inequality. One glance at Archie, and John knew from the pinched expression of distaste on his face that Archie was well aware of the honour being done him, and he didn't like it.

"My name is Aldon Rosier, and I am not a pureblood. I am here…" Rosier's voice was quiet, but strong with his own conviction. He took a deep breath. "I am here to help you plan a revolution."

Silence greeted his words – a minute or so of silence. John took a second to glance over at Chess, whose hands had stilled on her breadbox and who was glaring at Rosier, eyes narrowed, her thoughts barbed. _He's the one who figured out my ACD in all of three minutes in the Tournament. Figured it out, then misinterpreted the obvious data in front of him! As if anyone could hold a Fortis shield for as long as you did with a power reduction of only a third._

He hid a smile, glancing back at Archie, who was looking at Hermione.

"Am I that dramatic?" Archie asked lightly, head tilted. "Because if I am, I kind of understand why you roll your eyes at me."

"I guarantee you that you are, in fact, that dramatic," Hermione replied dryly. She turned to face Rosier. "Revolution. What, exactly, are you proposing for a _revolution?_"

"That is a rather unrefined question, is it not?" Rosier asked, turning his odd, hawk-like eyes on her. "I could ask you the same, and you would hesitate to answer as much as I do. It depends on the circumstance. At this point, I can see that you plan on using Arcturus' trial to draw attention to your cause; I would like to help. After that, I do think it depends on the response of the public. In the best-case scenario, we could push for change peacefully – change enough minds in the Wizengamot and repeal the laws on blood purity. I find that unlikely. In the worst-case scenario, I can envision us in open war, but I also find that unlikely – barring any external factors, we're simply not unstable enough for open war, nor do we have enough allies, and we would be crushed."

"You're the one who brought up _revolution_." Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Is that not what you're thinking?" A half-smile played about Rosier's lips. "Changing the world, advocating for blood equality, creating a new world where blood status doesn't matter? What is that, except a revolution?"

_Wow, he's a douchebag._ That was Chess, catching his eye. _Who talks like that?_

_British nobles? _John sent her a mental equivalent of a shrug. _He's smart, though, and angry – he's a halfblood, a bastard. A Truth-Speaker, too. He is sincere about changing the world, and he broke Harry Potter out of some pretty hefty wards after the Tournament._

_Interesting. Archie doesn't know that – remember, he and Hermione left before the end of the last game. He probably should._ Chess looked away, back down at her breadboard, though she wasn't working on it anymore.

"Calm down, 'Mione," Archie was saying, a glint of humour showing in his eyes. "He gets the drama from me, no doubt. We _are_ cousins, of a sort – his great-aunt married into the Blacks and is my great-aunt too. And he proposed to my cousin, last Gala. Or, the noble equivalent of it – his father approached Harry's father with an arrangement."

Hermione's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Arranged marriages are regressive and a horrific infringement of a person's right to choose. And you know that means you're _not_ blood related, Archie."

"Is this a good time to mention that _you _have an arranged marriage, Black?" Rosier's eyes lingered on the way Archie had his arm slung around Hermione's shoulders. "Or have you formally broken your betrothal to Harriett?"

Archie stiffened, the expression of mild humour on his face quickly disappearing. His reply was terse. "You guessed yourself that it wasn't a serious engagement, Rosier. That hasn't changed. It was… a loose arrangement which I agreed to for her protection, with a clause to break it for unsuitability at seventeen. Harry is like my sister, and the arrangement was never intended to go into effect."

Judging by the expression on Hermione's face, though, Archie would be hearing about this from her later. He'd also be hearing from John – John _knew_ that Archie had never wanted to get engaged to Harry, he had bawled over it so much in their first year! He had _told_ Archie that there were other options! And yet, somehow, in the intervening few years, Archie had _still _gotten himself engaged to her?

Chess touched his hand gently, getting his attention, and he looked down at her.

_Don't, John. _she thought at him._ It's Archie's business, and what is done, is done. I'm sure he had his reasons. More importantly – if Rosier is sincere about helping,_ _you should probably intercede. They'll miss the point, otherwise. _

She was probably right. He cleared his throat.

"Leave that for now, Hermione, Arch." John glanced between the two of them, and Rosier. "He helped Harry escape from both the graveyard and from Hogwarts afterwards – he's sincere in wanting change. You've been muttering about needing homegrown, British, support for awhile. Rosier is well-connected, and he is a halfblood who grew up _here_, who went to Hogwarts. He has an understanding of Wizarding Britain and the nobility that you don't have, he'll know better than you how certain things will fly with the public here. He can help you build the homegrown British base you need."

"And he's intelligent," Chess added, her voice soft. "He worked out the ACD in the Tournament, in the Hogwarts-AIM match. He might have misjudged it, but he did work it out faster than anyone at AIM."

Rosier took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly. "We got started on the wrong foot," he said delicately. "Kowalski is correct. I do want to help. My apologies for my flippancy and rudeness – this is, you must understand, the first time I have publicly introduced myself as being anything except a pureblood. It is a … difficult position for me, given my family's membership in the SOW Party ranks. Forgive me." He bowed again – another forty-five-degree bow.

"Don't bow like that, please." Archie stood up, returning the bow, but his wasn't as deep as Rosier's had been. From the expression on Archie's face, sympathetic, John knew that the tense moment was forgotten. It probably had been from the moment John had said that Rosier had broken Harry out. Hermione was not so inclined – her expression was still cautious, but Archie wasn't watching her. He was too focused on Rosier. "We are all equals here. Thank you for helping Harry."

"It was… the least I could do for her." Rosier looked away, uncomfortable. "She was not the only halfblood at Hogwarts, only the one unlucky enough to be publicly unmasked."

"Are there many halfbloods at Hogwarts, then?" Hermione's ears had perked up, and she leaned forward slightly in curiosity.

"I don't know of any others, but I strongly suspect that they exist." Rosier shook his head. "It… if you are a halfblood at Hogwarts, that is your most precious secret. I suspect some halfbloods may be at Hogwarts on falsified family trees; others may have more complex histories or stories. I knew only of myself, Harriett, and my friend Alexander Willoughby, but there are likely others. I … only discovered that I was not a pureblood with the awakening of my gift."

"Truth-Speaker," John said, realizing that none except himself and Francesca knew that part yet. "He's a Truth-Speaker – he can tell when someone is lying to him. It's a highly specialized form of Natural Legilimency. He can't use it to enter someone's minds, but he bypasses Occlumency shields to tell when people are lying. It's one of the wildest gifts, and it's never been known to manifest in a pureblood."

"To be strictly accurate, I believe I can only tell if the person knows they are lying to me," Rosier corrected. "I can't identify objective truth." There was an awkward pause, and he cleared his throat. "I would like to help you with whatever you need. I have some ideas for how to deal with the trial, and after that, we shall see where we are at politically. As Kowalski says, I am well-connected and politically aware; I can attempt to connect you to other groups that I think would be supportive, I can assist you in planning strategies that would win over new allies, and I can help predict the political reaction both to your actions and to external events. Please – let me help you."

John glanced over at Archie, who was looking at Hermione. Hermione shrugged, slightly – John was tempted, as he sometimes was, to assault her shields and find out what she was thinking, but he didn't. He wouldn't. That was a temptation he always lived with, because he knew that, with his abilities, he could assault anyone, and at least some of the time, he would be successful. But his curiosity did not override others' rights to privacy, so he didn't.

Archie nodded, coming to a decision, and looked towards Rosier with a cheerful smile on his face. "Welcome to the team, Aldon. Call me Archie, or Arch."

XXX

_AN: And this chapter was the one where I realized "I'm here to help you plan a revolution" is a great line for ending a fic and a terrible conversational opener. That was a fun save! Thanks to meek_bookworm, faithful beta-reader (500K words in and she's still reading), and to the lot of subject matter experts! Also thanks to support from the discord server - you are all the best. Please leave me a review and let me know what you think, especially of our new multiple PoVs! As a quick reminder, a running list of differences between this and Rigel Black canon is on my profile because at this point, we're in a whole new world!_

_Next Chapter hint: These whereabouts unknown / Please know you can come home / It's alright (Rise Against, Whereabouts Unknown)_


	2. Chapter 2

The Black residence was a strange place, Aldon concluded, not even a full week later. It was completely unlike any noble residence he had ever been in, and that included, aside from his own house, the Averys', the Parkinsons', the Malfoys', the Selwyns', and those were only the ones he remembered off the top of his head.

It was a lot smaller, for one, only a blocky house in a row of identical houses in London. It had obviously been expanded in the interior, but it still only included two sitting rooms, one dining room, and no parlours at all. It seemed that at some point all the parlours had been converted into bedrooms, but there were still only eight or so bedrooms. The grounds were non-existent by comparison to most noble manors – there was only the tiny front garden, home to the dozen or so lime-green snakes that the Lord Black apparently kept as pets, and a small backyard.

At least the library was adequate. It was only two storeys, but it was crammed full of books, the equal of any other noble library. It was a little lacking on magical theory, but then, most were. At present, Aldon was pacing through it, scanning the titles to see if there was anything that could possibly be useful. He didn't think there would be; the Blacks had been pureblooded for as long as anyone could remember. Their motto, until this generation, had been _Toujours pur_. The chances of there being a Truth-Speaker memoir in the Black library were slim to none, but he had to look.

As strange as Grimmauld Place was, library excepted, it didn't compare to the residents who lived there.

First and foremost, there was Arcturus Rigel Black, or _Archie Black_, as he preferred to be called. He hated the name _Rigel_, which turned out to have been used near exclusively by Harriett Potter when she was masquerading as him. Arcturus was just _Archie_, or _Arch_, and if Aldon ever used the name _Arcturus_ to refer to him, Archie would gently correct him. If Aldon persisted in calling him Arcturus, he would mysteriously go deaf on him and start showering his _girlfriend_, Hermione Granger, with attention. It was annoying, uncomfortable, and somewhat nauseating.

Archie Black was nothing like Harriett Potter. He was lighter, more inclined to laughter, more inclined to teasing his friends and to easy banter. That wasn't to say that he couldn't be serious; to the contrary, Archie Black had a core of iron, which Aldon got to witness first-hand when he sat in on Archie's meeting with his lawyer, Percy Weasley, a few days ago.

"Have you reconsidered, Archie?" Percy asked, with a curious glance at Aldon and Hermione Granger, whom Archie had both said could stay. "Rosier. What are you doing here? And you, Miss…"

"Consulting," Aldon replied idly, leaning back in his chair. "I am… Archie's guide to Wizarding British society, you could say."

"And Hermione is my girlfriend," Archie finished cheerfully. "And my official liaison with the British International Association – have I mentioned that I'm a _test case _for them_? _No, I haven't reconsidered anything. Tell the Ministry to take their plea deal and shove it."

Percy paused, looking at both Aldon and Hermione. "At this point, Archie, I should advise you of the limits of solicitor-client confidentiality. I strongly suggest you reconsider having anyone present at our meetings – it weakens any later claim you might have to the privacy of our discussions, since you have consented to having others present."

"It's fine." Archie waved a hand. "I'd rather have them here than not. Hit me with it, Percy – what have you got for prospective defenses?"

Percy sighed heavily, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Nothing good. Here are your options, the way I see it." He opened his briefcase and pulled out a pad of paper – Muggle paper, incidentally.

"First, you could simply allow me to challenge the evidence. The entirety of the prosecution's case rests on the interview – if I manage to get your interview tossed for unreliability, then I can try to raise reasonable doubts with the other facts. The only other item of importance is the fact that she was unmasked in the Tournament, and that Rosier identified her – Heir Rosier, if you have not received it yet, you should be expecting a summons."

Aldon sighed, putting his heads in his hands. He had not expected that, in fact, but he ought to have. He would have to find some way out of it. "I have not, no. Thank you. Please, no titles. Aldon is fine."

"Aldon, then. The prosecution is relying heavily on the interview, so it may not have occurred to them yet," Percy conceded. "But you should expect one. In any case – that defense relies on successfully excluding the interview for unreliability, which I may be able to by playing on our stereotypes of American magic. The original interviewer is American, and he won't attorn to our jurisdiction by answering the summons, so it should be possible to cast some aspersions on the quality of his journalism. Once that is done, there is only the fact that Harry was found in the Triwizard Tournament on the Hogwarts team, and there would be no evidence of a years-long ruse for her benefit. I would argue that merely being on the Triwizard Team, in this case, was _not _a benefit. It isn't a good case, but it could be enough to raise reasonable doubt."

"I'm vetoing that." Archie's voice was immediate and decisive, and judging from the way that Granger's lips were pursed, she agreed with him. "I don't want to be playing on any stereotypes about the _unreliability_ of American mages. British Muggleborns and halfbloods have mostly been trained in America for the last forty years, and even suggesting that they are unreliable in any way is not something I'm willing to do. _I'm_ American-trained, Hermione is American-trained. What else do you have?"

"I suspected you would say that." Percy shook his head. "Other than that, you have your excuse-based defenses – these are defenses that admit the facts but provide you with an excuse for why it wasn't wrong _in your circumstance._ Self-defence is the most common of the excuse-based defenses, but try as I might, I couldn't come up with a way that your years-long ruse was in self-defence. Instead, the best I could come up with was _necessity._"

"Necessity?" That was Hermione, leaning forward in her chair. "Explain."

"Yes, necessity. The necessity defense was developed through a case in which some sailors were stranded, killed a seventeen-year-old boy and ate him." Percy smiled slightly, even as Aldon felt an uneasy churn in his stomach. "Well, we don't need to go into the details of that case, though they really are quite interesting, though necessity was explicitly rejected in those circumstances. _R v Dudley and Stephens_, if you're curious."

"I'm not. I'm really not." Archie's face was painted with disgusted horror. "Just… go on, please."

"So, the basis of the necessity defense was you had no choice but to break the law. Answer me this – had you refused to go through with the ruse, what would Harry have done? How desperate was she to work under Professor Snape?"

Archie tilted his head to one side, thinking about it. "Desperate enough. She wouldn't have come up with the ruse otherwise. If I refused, I'm not sure what she would have done – she was desperate enough to go through with the ruse, and I can't see her just walking away from it if I had said no. Later, we would talk about switching back, but it was never a serious option. For either of us."

"Do you think she would have found another way to go to Hogwarts?" Percy asked, his voice delicate.

"That's not out of the question." Archie shook his head. "I don't know what else she _could_ have done, but if she had another way, she would have taken it."

"Fine." Percy nodded once, satisfied. "This may work. There are two parts to this argument, but they both rely on the fact that, at the time you entered into the ruse, you believed that she would have found another way to go to Hogwarts even if you hadn't helped. In that case, it was _necessary_ for you to enter the ruse, because it was the lesser of two evils to do so."

"The lesser evil," Aldon repeated, intrigued despite himself. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Well, first, you could argue that you knew, from when she was young, that she was a Potions prodigy and that it would be beneficial to the world for her to go to Hogwarts and study under Professor Snape." Percy's lips twisted slightly. "On one hand, this argument is good because it lets us bring in the things that Harry did while she was at Hogwarts, many of which were absolutely in others' interests: curing the Sleeping Sickness, killing the basilisk. She saved lives when she was at Hogwarts, and using this argument lets us highlight that. However, the difficult part is that you could not have known, at eleven, that she would go on to do this."

"I was sure Harry was destined for something special," Archie argued, grey eyes lighting up. "I knew she was destined to be great. She was studying Potions books when she as _four_, Percy, brewing on her own by the time she was six. It was crazy, and we all knew that she was going to do great things, especially in Potions. She deserved to go to Hogwarts and study under Master Snape!"

Percy held up a hand, even as Aldon and Hermione exchanged quick, skeptical, glances. "Let me finish, because there is a second aspect to this argument. We would also use some very old case law to say that you had a duty to her to ensure her safety. We would have to argue that whatever she would do instead of the ruse to go to Hogwarts would have been more dangerous and risked her life, in which case it would engage _your_ obligations, as a pureblood and as a noble, to do your utmost to protect her. The problem with this is that it's old law, and you don't know what Harry would have done anyway."

"It sounds good to me, though," Archie said, his voice hopeful. "I think those are good arguments, Percy. Let's go with that."

Hermione groaned, and Aldon agreed with her. "It's a _terrible_ argument, Archie," she snapped. "No, not blaming you, Percy – Archie, step back and look at the big picture. You would basically be making the argument that it was necessary for you to help Harry with the ruse because either you mysteriously knew that Harry would go on to save lives and do wonderful things at Hogwarts, and, at the same time, you were convinced that she would do something even more stupid and dangerous to go to Hogwarts and you had to intercede. It's incredible."

"I can live with _incredible_." Archie grinned, his voice teasing.

"She means that as in, not credible," Aldon interjected dryly, slamming down on Archie's disturbing good humour. "Hermione is correct. It doesn't make any sense, and it's absurd."

"But will it work?" Archie's voice was winning.

"Only Justice can tell." Percy shook his head, grim. "I do have more arguments I can use for mitigating your fine, though. Many of the arguments around Harry's actions at Hogwarts will be helpful there, as well as your own past and your reasons for going to AIM. But those will be even more effective if you _plead guilty_, even if you don't take their plea deal."

Archie sighed. "All right. Let's take another few days to think about it. I'm sure that, between the four of us, we'll come up with a couple more options."

The _couple more options _were what had Aldon fruitlessly scouring the Black Library over the past few days. He had an idea. He could swear that he had read something in the memoirs of past Truth-Speakers. Their powers weren't limited to lie detection – indeed, the memoirs suggested that lie detection was really a side-effect of their true powers, which related to their role in the wizarding courts. They were not judges, Aldon didn't think; they were called on only for cases of national importance, almost entirely treason cases, never anything with anything less than a capital sentence. The mention of it in the memoirs that Aldon had, that of Lady Jane Dalmore and her sisters, mentioned it only obliquely with some combination of resignation, respect, and a hint of nervousness or fear. There was something more to it, and Aldon wanted to know _what_. If he could work out _what_, then perhaps there would be another option, a better option, for all of them.

He would have liked to get access to the Potter Library. The Potters had never been pureblood supremacists, and the chances of there being a Truth-Speaker memoir in there that he hadn't read yet were much higher than here. Unfortunately, he had no relationship with Lord and Lady Potter, and from what Archie said, it sounded like Lord Potter was less than impressed with him over his stunt at the last Gala.

"The Potter Library?" Archie rubbed the back of his head. "Uh, I'd like to say yes, but..."

"James is highly strung enough as it is, with Harry having disappeared," Lord Black, who insisted Aldon simply call him _Sirius_, said bluntly. "And he has a thing about you because of the Gala proposal, and based on the Triwizard Tournament, he knows you were involved with her somehow. I'll talk him around, give me another week."

Aldon scowled, slamming a title he had been looking at back onto the shelf. He had saved Harriett's life, sort of, and didn't that count for something with Lord Potter?

And it was just a _proposal._ It hadn't even been a serious one! He had known it would be rejected – indeed, Aldon had planned on using the rejection to play up a tragically broken heart for the next year or so to avoid any other arrangements. That was par for the course among Wizarding British nobility.

Though, in all honesty, Aldon didn't think that the match would have been a bad one. Harriett Potter was _interesting, _and that was more than he could say of most noble girls his age. She would certainly have been a better option than most. And he couldn't deny that the Potters' traditional Light politics would have appealed to the Muggleborn and halfblood employees at the Rosier Investment Trust, and played very well with international investors. The Potter Library, too, likely contained more personal records of halfbloods which would have been burned or quietly removed from most other libraries.

Over the past few days, he had gotten through about three-quarters of the Black Library. Most of the books, he only had to glance at the title to know that it wasn't relevant. The most time-consuming part was when he found something that might have something important, such as an old family journal, then he would have to sit and read it. He had come across a few over the past few days, nothing useful. He thought, or maybe he _hoped_, that there were better memoirs in the Potter Library, but he supposed he would have to rely on Lord Black to negotiate access on his behalf.

Lord Sirius Orion Black was as odd as his son. Like many noble Lords, he didn't work, though Aldon knew he had worked as an Auror in the past. On and off, he saw Lord Black practicing his duelling in the backyard with one of Archie's _uncles_, Remus Lupin, but otherwise the Lord Black seemed wholly focused on his son. He was often near wherever Archie was, laughing uproariously as Archie regaled him with some tale or another of one of his American adventures.

On occasion, though, the Lord Black would become reclusive, retiring to the formal sitting room with a box of parchment scrolls and a Pensieve. His expression then would be dark, a glass of Firewhiskey on ice in one hand.

"Don't, Al," Archie said, touching Aldon on the shoulder. Archie had taken to simply calling him _Al_ at times, a name that Aldon hated with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

"Aldon," he corrected stiffly.

"Al," Archie said agreeably, and Aldon scowled up at him. At not even fifteen, Archie was taller than him by a few inches. "Don't worry about Dad – he's having his world turned upside down. I'll handle it, go work with Hermione on coming up with a few new ideas on my trial strategy."

Aldon had sighed and nodded, lip curling as he went on a hunt for Archie's _girlfriend_. He emphasized the word _girlfriend_ because he had no idea what else to call her; it was what Archie called her, and they could not be betrothed, with Archie still being formally betrothed to Harriett Potter, and while it was obvious that they liked each other very much, the whole thing was quite unseemly.

Archie had terrible taste in women, Aldon thought, leaning down to look at the bottom-most shelf of his row. Aldon hated working with Hermione Granger. The only time he and Hermione had agreed on _anything_ was in their meeting with Percy; otherwise, she was the most unladylike, aggressive, bossy, interfering _know-it-all_ that Aldon had ever met. She was sharp, quick to challenge anyone and everyone, vociferous in her defense of her ideas, and Aldon couldn't have a single conversation with her without it turning into a heated argument. They argued over everything: over his etiquette, over what constituted appropriate clothing, over Aldon's use of the words "Muggleborn", "witch", and "wizard", over possible trial strategies, over what Archie should wear for the trial and how much he ought to play up his pureblood and noble status, over anything and everything. And somehow, Archie looked at her like she hung the moon.

They did fit together well though, he reflected begrudgingly, running one hand along the some of the most cracked titles in the Black library. Hermione brought a seriousness to Archie that he sorely needed – no one else was as effective at getting him to sit down and focus on the task at hand, and similarly Archie was always able to charm a smile out of her, calm her down when she got too angry or upset. Still, that didn't mean that _Aldon_ had to like her.

The door to the Black Library cracked open, and Aldon looked up, seeing the slight Asian girl whose name he hadn't quite caught yet. John Kowalski called her _Monster_, while Archie called her _Chess_, and he thought he had heard Hermione call her _Francesca _once. He suspected it was the last one that was her name (surely Americans did not name their children _Monster_ or _Chess_?) but he wasn't entirely sure, and he didn't want to ask.

She had a book tucked under one arm. "Oh," she said quietly, looking down on the floor. "Sorry. Um, excuse me."

She disappeared, and Aldon went back to his skimming. That had been typical for her – she had spoken very little to him and seemed inclined to avoid him altogether. Which wasn't to say she wasn't friendly with the others – when Aldon caught Archie and his friends together, she was often there, a book or mug of tea in hand, a small smile on her face as she listened to their chatter.

Aldon was fairly confident that she was John Kowalski's betrothed, or the American equivalent thereof. They went out together nearly every day, exploring the tourist sights of Muggle Britain together, visiting John's family, the Scamanders, and they would come back laughing, always bringing back something small for Archie. It was rare for Aldon to see her without John at her side. And there was something about the way they looked at each other, the way they treated each other. She always seemed to look for him first when she entered a room, and she would gravitate towards him if he was there. They exchanged glances at least as often as Archie and Hermione did, looks full of meaning, and Aldon noticed the way that John fussed over her. He always kept an eye on her meals, always found a way to slide something else on her plate, always made sure she was warm enough, with a seat by the fire, a blanket, and once, his own sweater.

John Kowalski was a lucky bastard, Aldon reflected. The girl was stunning – every time he caught a glance of her, he would be momentarily taken aback by her beauty. Her hair was thick, but never out of place, always falling in either a perfect cascade halfway down her back or put up and out of the way in an elegant bun or tail, not a single flyaway hair to be seen. Her eyes were large, dark, and inviting, her lips a natural pink full of promise, her skin flawless, with a warm glow. She was always well-dressed, from what Aldon saw – it was Muggle dress, but she always wore skirts, falling to her knees, and some sort of tight leggings underneath with trim, fashionable, heeled boots, a fitted cardigan that emphasized her slender form, her delicate curves.

That didn't even touch on her personality. She was everything that Hermione was not: soft-spoken, respectful, demure. She reminded him of some women of his acquaintance, like the Lady Bridgerton, who was pureblooded but not noble and yet behaved so properly that no one would have ever guessed she had not been born noble. _Francesca_, if that was her name, was sweet and gentle, and quite proper by the way that she avoided being alone with him, the way she avoided eye contact with him, since they had not been formally introduced. And it all seemed to be quite natural, without a hint of the calculation Aldon so often saw, which only reflected better on her. Had Aldon been so fortunate as to be able to call the girl _his_ betrothed, he had no doubt he would treat her much the same as John did, giving her and her family no reason to break the betrothal contract for unsuitability. Then he would have wedded her as soon as possible – at seventeen would have been his preference, but certainly immediately after her graduation. She was a prize for any noble House. He wondered vaguely what her blood-status was – it could have really been anything, he supposed, though he knew John Kowalski was a halfblood.

He finished with one row of books and moved onto the next. The thing he hated most about private libraries is that they weren't sorted in any consistent way. This row seemed to be mostly old school textbooks, but he still had to go through it just in case something else had worked its way in.

John matched her well. From what Aldon understood of international politics, the Kowalskis were well-known and well-respected in the international wizarding community. His father was the Head of Foreign Affairs at the Magical Congress of the United States of America, his paternal grandparents were war heroes from the Grindelwald Wars, his older sister Porpentina Kowalski had recently taken a post as a junior prosecutor at the International Wizarding Criminal Court in Geneva. John himself was a Natural Legilimens, and Aldon had seen him duelling both the Lord Black and Lupin in the backyard. Between his gift, the new channelling method he used in the Tournament, and his own skill, John held his own, sometimes coming off the better, more often not.

Remarkably, John also seemed to be given to giving people chances. Aldon knew well that John had found more in his mind than he had said. To Archie, to Hermione and the rest, John had only given general information about him and his role in facilitating Harriett's escape from Hogwarts that Aldon had stupidly not thought to reveal upfront. He hadn't mentioned Aldon's past relationship with alcohol at all, though his words, _you're a liar_, echoed in Aldon's mind every now and then. Aldon hadn't pressed him on it, and it seemed like, so long as Aldon posed no threat to either John or his friends, it would remain that way.

Aside from Archie, John had to be the friendliest member of the Black household, occasionally finding time to chat with Aldon about something or other – Quidditch, something called Quodpot that was popular in America, the Triwizard Tournament, places they had both seen and knew of in Wizarding Britain. Once or twice, he had even invited Aldon to join him and _Monster_ on their Muggle sightseeing trips.

_Monster_. That was a rather odd nickname, wasn't it? If Aldon had been the lucky bastard to have that beautiful girl on his arm, he was sure he would have found a better nickname for her than that. Still, maybe it was ironic – certainly, she didn't seem to mind.

Nothing in this row, and Aldon shook his head, moving onto the next. This row was mixed, and he sighed deeply. The only good thing about this row is that it was the last one he hadn't searched. Of course, because it was the last row he searched, it was full of the oldest books, including more than one journal or memoir, and a third of the titles were in French. He swore softly under his breath and started cudgelling his brain through the language that, despite his mother's efforts, had never really penetrated.

Put together, Grimmauld Place and its residents created an environment like none other. It was _alive_, in a way that Aldon had never experienced before. Rosier Place was icy in its stillness – at home, Aldon spent most of his time alone in his comfortable parlour, in his bedroom, and the common areas sat empty most of the time. His father was always preoccupied with Rosier Investment Trust, and his mother was often away in France, handling the Trust's assets abroad or otherwise enjoying her time in the country she loved. Other than dinner, dominated by talk about the Rosier Investment Trust, they spent little time together.

There was always _something_ happening at Grimmauld Place. Archie was always in one of the common rooms, and he was never alone. He was always with his dad, with his girlfriend, with one or another of his friends, he was often laughing about something or other. People that Aldon didn't know, friends from America, things that Aldon had no idea about. Archie often, in these conversations, spoke about _movies_, about _fiction_, or about _musicals_, and Aldon couldn't really follow.

Sometimes, it was an utter and complete nightmare. The worst day, bar none, Aldon had walked into what looked like a pranking war. Archie had just launched a spell of some kind at his father, and the Lord Black was laughing as he deflected it. John was sheltering his betrothed behind him with the _Fortis _spell, using the new channelling method that he had had in the Tournament, slowly ushering her towards the kitchen, out of harm's way. Hermione was standing in one corner, head in hands, seemingly utterly resigned to the chaos reigning around her.

"Excuse us," Kowalski had said to him with a quick smile. "Monster doesn't like pranks, so we're out of here. We're going to explore Oxford today, want to come?"

"No, but thank you for the offer," Aldon had replied, with only a brief glance towards the girl hiding behind John's bulk. He was itching to ask about the new channelling method that John was using, which seemed to be coming from the bulky, oblong contraption on his wrist, but evidently, now wasn't the time. He would have to remember to ask him later about it. "I have to start looking through the Black Library – I have an idea, but I think I need a little more support before I can present it to Archie."

Kowalski shrugged. "Suit yourself. See you later."

More often, Aldon would show up to find Archie in the sitting room, reading Muggle _fiction _that the girl and Kowalski were bringing back for him, one arm around his girlfriend. Archie liked _touching_ – he enjoyed physical contact, and he was often curled up close to his girlfriend, one hand on her or arm around her. It was uncomfortable, but at least he hadn't walked in on them _kissing_ or, god forbid, anything else. Sometimes, instead of a book, Archie would be listening to music on what looked like a Muggle device that Aldon didn't recognize.

He itched to take a closer look it, but any time he saw it, Archie had something like earmuffs over his head, and he clearly wouldn't hear whatever Aldon was asking him. He always made a note to ask him later, because Archie was open and cheerful about explaining things, but by the time Archie had put it away, Aldon would have been distracted by something else and it would have slipped his mind. He always kicked himself for it later, because the device was just too curious and he really did want to know more about it, from an academic standpoint. Just like John's new channelling method. He always _meant_ to ask, he just kept forgetting, between the general activity of the Black residence and the other things he was doing.

Surely someone couldn't have worked out how to make Muggle devices work in magical environments? That was one of the biggest problems of modern magical theory. Something would have been announced, or published, had it been solved. Even if the news had been censored coming to Wizarding Britain, Aldon still received a contraband copy of the _American Journal of Magical Theory, _and he would have heard about it. It was more likely to be a magical version of something that Muggles had, but even then, Aldon was a little surprised not to have heard about it. Something like that necessarily brought in magical theory principles, and there should have been multiple articles, announcements, commentary from other magical theorists, widespread fanfare about it. He would absolutely have to ask about these items soon.

If Archie wasn't in the sitting room, he was often in the kitchen, talking with his friends or his dad over steaming mugs of coffee, or studying a large, flat book with a Muggle notebook beside him, taking notes with a pen. Aldon did like coffee, and often partook – the Blacks had good taste when it came to coffee, and it was rich and dark, with undertones of caramel and toffee.

"If you don't mind me asking, what _is_ that?" Aldon had ventured once, eyeing the book as he took a break from his search for a cup of coffee. Aldon recognized some of the symbols lining the side; a music rune, a brightness rune, a darkness rune. A writing rune. The music rune obviously turned on and off the music held in the book – Archie tapped it, listening carefully to the song that the book was singing to him, then turned if off. Aldon didn't recognize the song.

"My script. _Grease_," Archie had replied absently. "I'm in my school theatre troupe – I'm preparing auditions for all of the male roles, since I don't think I'll be able to prepare much through the trial."

Sometimes, he would hear Archie singing something with the pretty girl, her high soprano weaving through his tenor. The song was about _summer loving_ and made Aldon blush, and he didn't think her voice matched with the song at all, but apparently Archie had insisted that he needed someone to help him practice the duet. Hermione had outright refused to help and had shoved their other friend into his incessant rehearsals instead. That song wasn't even the worst of them – for that, Aldon would have picked _Greased Lightning, _because he would eat his hat if it was about any method of transportation!

He had found a shelf that seemed to be entirely memoirs, and he started pulling them out. The first few all seemed to be from Healers, and Aldon flipped through them, then shook his head and put them back. Archie had probably read them, and he hadn't seemed to know much about Truth-Speakers when John had explained the gift, so he could almost certainly rule them out. Now he only had to read about… nine different memoirs on this shelf. Three of them were in archaic French.

He sighed, pulled them all out, took them to the centre table, and started reading.

He was only two volumes through, with nothing of importance, when he felt a suspicious tug at his core. He bolted upright – something was wrong, something was _off_, and it was nothing that he had ever felt before. He slowed his breathing, focusing, listening to his core.

There was a song there, and there was a spell woven into the song. It was a compulsion spell, and it pulled at him, pulled at something he knew. He grabbed onto the table in front of him, anchoring himself, and mentally he let the spell in, let the song tell him what it wanted.

It wanted him to Apparate, to follow a little thread of compulsion into the ether, following it somewhere north and west, and he fought against the inclination to go. It wasn't strong to start, but it built, and a minute or so later, it asked him: _Do you know anything? Do you know where she is, my daughter? _And the face of Harriett Potter swam up from his memories. Unbidden, the memories of the last night he had seen her rose in his memories – the night that he had broken her out of Hogwarts.

The spell recognized it, saw it as _something new_ and it dug its claws into his core, and suddenly Aldon couldn't breathe. He felt it then – the desperation, a mother's intense love for her child, the tearful _demand_ that he go and tell her everything he knew about Harriett Potter, about where she had gone. The pull was overwhelming, and he _needed _to go. He _needed _to Apparate, and he now knew exactly where that thread was pulling him.

"Fuck!" There was only one Songmaster in all of Wizarding Britain, and he tore out of the Black Library, whipping past the Lord Black and Archie on his way out. One glance at the two of them told him all he needed to know – they weren't affected the same way that he was, and they stared at him, wide-eyed, as he ran for the Apparition point. The spell was so _clever_, so _intricate_ – it targeted only people who had knowledge about Harriett Potter and her whereabouts that the caster _didn't already know_. Aldon couldn't even begin to comprehend the detail and planning that had gone into this spell. This wasn't wand-work, this was a careful weaving of multiple spells: something for the Legilimency, something for compulsion, a guide to the location, something to make it hurt if they didn't go. He didn't know what the _fuck_ this was, but it _hurt_.

The power of it, too – whatever the spell was, she had cast it broadly enough to reach London from Potter Place, which Aldon knew was in the West Country. That was _far_, much farther than any spell he had ever heard of or seen before. There had to be an Amplification spell worked into it, but Aldon had never heard of an Amplification doing _this_. Then again, he knew very little about Songcasting, and it didn't matter. He had to go, one way or another. _Hell_.

He reached the Apparition point, a shadowed corner close to the gate to Grimmauld Place and threw himself into the Apparition.

The walls of what had to be _Potter Place_ solidified, and he fell over, breathing heavily. Potter Place was huge building, with two large wings tied in the centre by a high tower. The building itself had an almost medieval aesthetic – it was made of worn, warm stones, there was ivy climbing up some portions of the walls, the windows were small, only belatedly filled with glass.

"Well, what do we have here?" The voice was cool, filled with a sort of grim humour, and Aldon whipped around to see the Lord Potter, wand trained on him. "Colour me _not_ surprised. The Rosier Heir, Lionel Hurst, and…"

"Potions Master Allan Thompson," another voice coughed out, and Aldon turned around to see a large, broad-shouldered man, with lazy eyes and a thatch of blonde hair on his head, bent at his waist as he panted. He had fought the compulsion spell, fought it hard, and sweat gleamed at his temples. Hurst, on the contrary, was on his feet, wand in one hand and knife in the other. "_Fuck_, what was that?"

"What the _fuck_, James?!" That was Lord Black, who had materialized beside Aldon. "If you think _that_ hasn't caught Riddle's attention…"

Lord Potter raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback as he lowered his wand. "Sirius? Lily said the spell would only pull in people who had information about where Harry had gone – information we didn't already know."

"I followed him." Sirius jutted his chin towards Aldon brusquely. "What were you and Lily even _thinking?"_

"Don't judge me, Sirius," James replied, his voice harsh as he turned back on the three of them who had been summoned by the spell. "My daughter has disappeared, and I want _answers_."

Sirius sighed and ran one hand through his black curls. "And afterwards? What about afterwards, James? This could very well constitute an attack on all of Wizarding Britain – if Lily reached _London_ with her spell, you can certainly bet that the SOW Party will have noticed!"

"With the quad Amplification loop, it should have hit most of Wizarding Britain, Lily says," Lord Potter replied, his voice determined as he trained his wand back on the three people who had been drawn there. Aldon shuddered a little - a _quad_ Amplification Loop? No one had _ever _managed to run a quad-Amplification loop. It just required too much power, both for the loop and the spell. The most he had heard of were double-Amp loops. On the other hand, Aldon could absolutely believe a quad-Amped spell would hit most of Wizarding Britain – one Amplification loop would magnify a spell by a factor of ten, and when added three more times, it would boost the spell some ten thousand times. Holy _hell_. "So. Which of you three would like to start talking? Where is my daughter?"

"What comes after this, James?" Sirius repeated, his voice insistent as he came to stand beside Aldon. "You cannot possibly expect the Wizengamot to _ignore_ this."

"Lily and I were planning on going abroad." Lord Potter glanced at his friend. "We haven't anything here for us, now – you know that I've been suspended without pay from DMLE and, with the media attention, Lily's been let go from her job. There's no reason for us to stay here, so we may as well go after our daughter. She's only _fourteen_, Sirius. She needs us. You have my proxy at the Wizengamot, and Potter Place will obey you while we're gone."

"_Fuck_." Sirius sighed – mixed anger and resignation. "I don't fucking _want_ Potter Place, James. Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not forever, Sirius. Just until we sort this out." Lord Potter pointed his wand at Aldon first. Aldon supposed that made sense – he had been the one to announce Harriett's identity to the world in the final game, and he was the last one there, with her, at Hogwarts. "Rosier. Let's start with you. You knew who she was."

Maybe it was a mark of the past few years, but being held at wandpoint by Lord Potter was not as frightening as he would have once thought. Or maybe, since all of Aldon's fears over the past four years had been related to his fear that his blood-status would be discovered, and the fact that his blood status was, for once, the least of his problems, he wasn't as afraid as he should have been. And he had the Lord Black beside him. Lord Black had been, if not overtly friendly, at least welcoming.

Aldon wasn't sure where to start, and the silence stretched. A minute, two minutes, as he scrambled to think. He didn't want to reveal _everything_ to these people – he didn't know the Potions Master, he didn't know Lionel Hurst. He struggled, focusing on the most important facts.

"Your daughter was not the only halfblood at Hogwarts," he croaked out, finally. "I'm…"

He paused, thinking through the options. A halfblood? A bastard? A Truth-Speaker, if Lord Potter even knew what that was? Curse-breaker, Ward-maker? Conspirator?

"A Slytherin? The Heir to a Dark noble house? A schemer? A liar?" Lord Potter's words were sharp, edged. "What was _your_ relationship with my daughter?"

"I was going to say _gifted, _but whatever you wish." Aldon cleared his throat, a little awkward. "I did not have a relationship with your daughter, not what I am sure you are imagining. We were never even on first-name terms. But I know when people are lying to me. It's a rare magical talent, called Truth-speaking. I worked out myself first that she was not _Rigel Black_, then that she was Harriett Potter, and then I decided to keep that information to myself until, as you know, she was unmasked in the Tournament."

He hesitated a moment, then he unbuttoned his sleeve and shook his arm out. He had nothing to lose by showing it, and it might work in his favour. He flashed his oath-scar. "My silence did not come without its cost."

Lord Potter's face was unreadable. "And why didn't you tell anyone? What was in it for you?"

"Hope." Aldon laughed, a little caustic as he pulled his sleeve back over his arm, buttoning it up neatly. "How would I have explained it? Who would I have told? My gift is not one that occurs in purebloods."

"He's a halfblood, James," Sirius supplied, putting out the stark, clear-cut words that Aldon still avoided and resting one hand on his shoulder. Aldon shook him off roughly – he didn't need the support. "Probably a Rosier bastard. I don't know how Lord and Lady Rosier managed to cover it up, but Archie's Legilimens friend vouched for his sincerity and his gift speaks for itself."

"When Harriett was forced into the Tournament, I signed up with her. I tried to look out for her. I helped her get out of the graveyard, and when she was arrested, I broke the wards holding her and helped her escape." Aldon shook his head and looked away. "I don't know where she went, and she had no reason to tell me. The last I saw of her, I offered to let her out of the Hogwarts wards, and she said that wasn't necessary and pulled out an Invisibility Cloak."

There was silence, as Lord Potter considered him. "And then?"

"Then I came home and acted as a good Dark pureblood Heir should," Aldon snapped, turning away in annoyance. It was stupid to turn his back on a drawn wand, but the Lord Black was there and would _probably _keep him from being hexed. "She was not the only halfblood at Hogwarts, and I was not prepared to see her go to Azkaban – so I got her out. That is all I know."

"Then she came to me." Lionel Hurst had straightened from his dueller's crouch, his knife since tucked away somewhere. The small of his back, if Aldon guessed correctly – that was where Harriett had always kept hers. His wand stayed out, held casually in his fingers, ready to defend himself. "She stayed with me in the Lower Alleys for a few days while I got papers for her to flee the country. Master Thompson sought her out during that time."

"I gave her a generalized recommendation letter and a list of notable Potions Masters abroad who owe me favours." The Potions Master was breathing heavily, rubbing his forehead. "She is a gifted potioneer and has apprenticed under Snape for at least the past year. She deserves to complete her apprenticeship. I don't know if she'll take any of the options I provided. I didn't ask."

"Where, exactly, did you send her?" Lord Potter's voice was dangerous.

"I gave her options in Italy, Russia, India, China, and Australia." Master Thompson flashed a wry smile. "Masters Andrea Bressan, Ilya Bryliov, Arjun Gupta, Pei Liu and Mistress Jessica Wilson. But she didn't hint at her plans, and I didn't ask – exactly so that no one could force me to reveal where she had gone, mind you. Well, if that's all you wanted from me, I'll be taking my leave. I left a cauldron on stasis at the Guild and must return before it explodes and takes half of Diagon Alley with it."

He turned on the spot and left.

"I don't know either." Hurst shrugged, and his smile was somewhat sympathetic. "I asked her to stay, but she insisted that staying would be too risky. Then I offered to go with her, and she refused that too. She just needed papers to flee the country, she said, then she left. She wouldn't tell me where she was heading. France first, if I had to guess."

"And you… let her go?" From Lord Potter's tone, he didn't seem to know what was worse – the idea of his daughter living long-term with Lionel Hurst, going on an international jaunt with him, or the fact that she had apparently refused those options in favour of taking off on her own.

"What else was I to do?" Hurst shrugged again. "She wanted to go."

"You could have contacted us. Brought her home." Lord Potter's voice was slow, a little dangerous, and his eyes narrowed.

"Don't try me, Auror Potter. I followed your summons willingly, but you and I both know Legilimency is illegal and you have no power to detain us." Hurst shook his head, his sympathetic air vanishing. "Have you ever tried to keep Harry from doing whatever she wanted to do? It's impossible. The papers I gave her are in the names of Anne Bolton, Maria Thornton, and Lisa McIntyre. I don't know which one she used, and at this point I expect that she's tossed all three and moved onto a new set of false papers. She's a survivor. She'll survive this."

Based on the way Lord Potter paused, his wand raised, he wasn't convinced. There was an awkward silence as the two men stared at each other – evidently, Lionel Hurst was not in the least afraid, and his own grip on his wand had tightened. Aldon could tell that Lord Potter was spoiling for a fight, and he just waiting for an excuse to begin.

"He speaks truth," Aldon snapped. He had no interest in being caught in a firefight. "I'll swear on it if you want. You have what you wanted, Lord Potter. If we may go?" He swept a bow, forty-five degrees of slightly mocking deference. "You see, I still have at least seven memoirs to read to try to bail the Black Heir from the morass he and your daughter have landed themselves in."

There was a long moment of silence, before Lord Potter sighed. "Very well," he said, his tone ungracious. "Go on, then."

Lionel Hurst disappeared with a crack, without a backwards glance. Aldon was about to follow, but he paused, looking towards Lord Black.

The Lord Black shook his head. "Go on without me, Aldon. I need to talk to James and Lily."

The Lord and Lady Potter left Britain that very day – for France, it sounded like, then they would go eastwards, checking with each of the Potions Masters that Master Thompson had named and with the Guilds of each wizarding nation they passed through for any unexpected new talents. There were things that Harriett Potter couldn't hide, and first and foremost among them was her passion for and skill with potions.

At least, Aldon thought, with not a small bit of annoyance, he now had access to the Potter Library. A second, massive, private library to ransack in search of more information about Truth-Speaker gifts. _Joy_.

XXX

The last two weeks had been among the best of Archie's life. Sure, he had been charged with a crime and he would be standing trial in a couple weeks, and okay, Harry had disappeared and he hadn't heard from her since that one mirror call a month ago, and he was still waiting for her promised communication, and yes, Uncle James and Aunt Lily had gone off to search for her, taking Addy with them, but he was Archie Black again. He was Archie Black again, and he had his Dad back, and he had his friends around him. He even had a new friend, of sorts – fine, Aldon Rosier was sort of grouchy and way too serious, but there was something just so _fun_ about him.

Or maybe Archie just liked teasing him. If anyone needed more of a sense of fun, it was Aldon Rosier, and Archie was there to give it to him.

Hermione hated him. In her words, he was a _stuck-up, uptight noble prig_, a _chauvinistic, insulting jerk, _and a _patronizing arse_ whom she wanted very much to punch. Archie was glad she hadn't punched him yet – frankly, Aldon looked like he would break if someone hit him too hard, and he didn't want to have to patch his new friend up so soon. Somehow, she had desisted, and their fights stayed in words.

Aldon seemed to get along with both Dad and John, though. Archie suspected that Dad saw a bit of himself in Aldon – he, too, had left a Dark house.

"I had a softer landing," Dad said, shaking his head. "Think about it, Arch – I was best friends with James, and I had Remus, I had your mum. I was on a different path from my first day of Hogwarts, when I was sorted into Gryffindor. He had to find out, partway through school, in Slytherin House and with his family in the SOW Party, that he was not a pureblood. He's been raised as a pureblood, too, so most of the ways he acts, especially the ways that annoy Hermione the most, reflect that. He's doing his best."

With that in mind, Archie went out of his way to be understanding. He teased his new friend every now and then, calling him _Al_ instead of _Aldon_, making him uncomfortable with public displays of affection, pushing him into interacting with his friends, none of whom wore wizarding dress day to day. Even Dad, now, had started leaving off his overrobe at home, though his clothing underneath was more like Muggle formal dress than anything else. Archie tried to be open with his new friend, about what he was reading, what he was listening to, what he was doing, letting Aldon ask whatever questions he felt comfortable asking. Things were good in his world, and Aldon just needed to explore a bit and he would see!

And John had vouched for him. John had been deep in his mindscape, and he hadn't seemed too concerned about their new ally. He even tried to invite Aldon out with him and Chess on their Muggle sightseeing tours. If Archie couldn't trust his own judgement, then at least he trusted John's. John would never have invited Aldon out with him and Chess if he thought there was any danger to them.

The only stickler was Chess, who seemed to be avoiding their new acquaintance entirely.

"I've got work to do too," she had said, shaking her head and putting her breakfast dishes in the sink so that Archie or Dad could do them later by magic. "I'm still doing data analysis for my dad this summer, and it's easier to work when it's quiet. And then I have to get to the public library so I can email it to him and recharge my laptop. And there's the ACD to develop, too – there are papers to read, a new circuit layout to design, and I broke my test integrated circuit again… Anyway. I'll be working in the library, then John and I are going to see the Tower of London this afternoon."

Archie tilted his head a little to one side, a little concerned. "He's not bad, you know. I mean, a little stiff and overly formal, but he's fine."

Chess only made a face at him and disappeared, heading for the Black Library to work. When Aldon started searching the Black Library for whatever it was that he was looking for, she moved her base of operations to her bedroom, or sometimes the formal sitting room.

"She doesn't like meeting new people," John supplied, shaking his head when Archie asked about it, a week in. "Honestly, knowing her now, I'm surprised she worked up the courage to approach _us _on our first day of school, though I guess that was before … Well, don't worry about it. You've got enough to worry about."

"I mean, if you're sure," Archie replied, shrugging a little. "I just don't want her to be _uncomfortable._"

"She'll be fine." John sighed. "She can't avoid him forever – it'll resolve itself eventually."

For the moment, Archie was sitting in the kitchen, working on his Danny characterization again while Hermione read yet another legal text beside him, her mouth furrowed into a scowl. Archie had tried telling her that he had Percy for reading legal texts, but she insisted on checking everything for herself. Another comment about it would go nowhere, so he left her to it – he half-suspected that she just wanted to feel useful. There wasn't much else for her to do except liaise periodically with the British International Association, and that she could only do from her home in Oxford.

And he liked her _here_. Beside him, even if all he was doing was working on Danny Zuko's characterization. He didn't really _get_ Danny – how was it that Danny could be so in love with Sandra over the summer, and totally willing to drop her as soon as school started, as soon as his friends started making fun of her? He just didn't get it, how he could go from singing _Summer Nights_ to just avoiding her like that? And then to joining the track team to impress her, then giving up as Sandra changed to suit _him_? It didn't really make any sense to him, and he couldn't_ connect_.

He might have had a better fit with Kenickie, and if he won that role, he would get to sing _Greased Lightning_. Kenickie had a furious on-again-off-again relationship with Rizzo, which Archie _knew_ he could act – he loved brash, bold characters like that, and they were so much fun! The only problem with Kenickie was that he didn't like the pregnancy subplot that Rizzo had, because even if _Kenickie_ didn't know, it made him sort of uncomfortable.

That really only left Rump (who was most notable for _mooning people_), Doody (a younger gang member who mostly wanted to be a rock-and-roll guitarist), or Sonny (who was a coward, and who didn't have a musical number at all). Of the three, he probably would try for Doody the hardest, except that he couldn't even _fake_ being able to play a guitar. None of these roles were great for him, but he would try anyway.

And he would be fifteen. Fifteen was absolutely the time to win a romantic lead, right? If only he could figure out Danny Zuko!

The fireplace beside him lit up, and Aldon came tumbling out, a book in hand. He had been off in the Potter Library for several days, searching through it for whatever he was looking for. He hadn't been explicit, only saying that, if only he could work it out, he might have an idea. Something better than just challenging the Ministry's evidence, kicking out Archie's interview as unreliable, or a necessity defence that Archie still thought was pretty good, but that _both_ Aldon and Hermione thought was ridiculous.

"I have it!" Aldon said, and his upper-class accent was even sharper when he was emotional. This was, Archie thought, probably the most excited he had ever seen the Rosier Heir – his orange eyes were lit up, and there was a smile on his face that Archie could only describe as _predatory_. He slammed the book on the table – one of the old Potter journals, very old by the look of the cracked and worn spine, written in what looked like Norman French. "One of the early Peverells was a Truth-Speaker, and _he wrote about it! _He wrote about a Truth-Speaker's role in the wizarding courts!"

"Aldon, what on _earth_ are you talking about?" Hermione picked up the book with careful fingers, paging through it hesitantly.

"I just spent _four hours_ deciphering the thing, but I have it!" Aldon said, waving his hands, more expressive than Archie had ever seen him before. Aldon did _sarcasm_, he did _mockery_, and sometimes Archie saw hints of sharp intelligence or heartfelt sincerity or something else, something deep and genuine, but this was the first time that Archie had seen him _excited_. Aldon headed for the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup, then sat down at the table, pulling the book back towards himself. "Truth-Speakers used to be an integral part of the Wizarding Courts of Law because they could _summon Justice herself_."

A silence greeted his words as both Archie and Hermione stared at him.

"Summon…. Justice herself?" Hermione asked, her voice a little skeptical. "Explain."

"The Incarnation of Justice, to be exact." Aldon flipped through the pages until he found the passage he wanted. "_Lord Throckmorton was accused of high treason and, being a wizarding noble, invoked his right to trial by Justice Herself. I prayed for days that I would not be selected for the rite of summoning, but to no avail. God give me strength."_

Aldon flipped a few pages. "A few days later, he writes this: _I have been dreading this day, yet I knew it would come. There are too few Truth-Speakers to avoid the Lady forever. I have only a little time, so I will write what I can. At the appointed hour, I attended the Wizarding Courts and spilled my blood on Her design. "My name is Master Thomas Catullus Peverell," I said, for the Lady always wishes an introduction. "I am one of your Chosen. On the demand of the accused, I implore you, Lady, to hear this trial for high treason." I remember little of what follows._"Aldon took a deep breath of satisfaction. "I can summon Justice for you."

Hermione stared at him. "I'm… still not following. What do you mean, _summon Justice_?"

Aldon huffed, annoyed, but his voice took on a lecturing tone. The one that Hermione hated, to be exact, and Archie rested a hand on her arm as her eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth. "There are Incarnations, aren't there? Concepts that people have believed in, relied on, for so long that they become embodied in a sort of… elemental being. When you go into the oldest legends, you sometimes come across mention of them: Dominion, which the Egyptian wizards thankfully trapped in a physical form to keep his influence from our lives, or Justice, who ran trials for the Romans and the Greeks, or Mercy, who sometimes stayed Justice's hand. We've lost the ability to invoke most of them, but they exist, a sort of consciousness created by our own beliefs. Justice has not been summoned for near five hundred years, but I expect that is because the Statute of Secrecy was on the horizon and our people were drawing back from the Muggle world, and Truth-Speakers who had the ability to invoke Justice were becoming rarer. So, the courts moved on, using wizard-made law, instead of invoking something greater."

From the look on Hermione's face, Archie could tell she was itching to dive into the library herself. It was _interesting_, but she wouldn't just take Aldon's word for it. "Even accepting this as true, how does this help us? This all sounds very speculative and risky – you're running off a few pages of text, this doesn't seem very well supported at all."

"But what do we have to _lose_?" Aldon's eyes had narrowed, too, the orange of his irises burning. "You have some intelligence. You know as well as I do that there is no winning on the law. All we have are legal loopholes, tricks, elaborate stories that _suggest_ something else happened than what actually did. But we don't really believe what the ruse itself was wrong, in the circumstances, do we? So, we change the laws. Let them answer to something _higher_ than the Wizengamot's laws – let them justify why blood identity theft is wrong in front of Justice Herself."

"And what rules does Justice work by? How does _she _decide what is right, and what is wrong? Is it just some consensus, between all the people in the world and what they believe is just? How does this work in our favour? And what about you?" Hermione grabbed the book, turning back a few pages to the first paragraphs. "What you read earlier – the writer is obviously afraid of the rite of summoning, he's trying to avoid it. There's something more here, something else, and I don't like it. We need more research before this even becomes a viable option!"

"I'm kind of liking the idea though," Archie butted in, thinking it over. Making the Ministry answer to _Justice Herself_ on the laws? That sounded far more interesting than the strategies they were looking at before.

"Then help me with more research," Aldon snapped. "Let's get Percy in here – he can get us some old trial records where Justice was invoked from the Inns of Court. We can prepare for this, far better than the Ministry can because we _know_ what we are planning. As for the rite itself, let me deal with it. All of the Truth-Speakers who mention it seem to have survived, so it can't be that bad."

"Famous last words." Hermione shook her head, lips pursed. "Of course, all the ones who mention it survived – they survived to write about it_. _Fine. I suppose it's worth exploring. Give me what you have."

She looked like she had taken a bite of a very sour lemon as she said so, while Aldon's smile was sharp in victory. Time for some teasing, if only to break the tension a little. He put one arm around Hermione, leaning closer to her. "But you can explore it _here_, can't you? I want you _here_, beside me."

"I suppose this is my invitation to disappear," Aldon said dryly, handing her the book. "Enjoy the Norman French then, if you can even read it. I will fetch my other records for you, and contact Percy."

There was a sound of a throat clearing from the doorway to the kitchen, and Archie looked up, seeing Dad standing there, an uncertain look on his face. "Dad, what is it?"

"Draco and Pansy are here to see you, Arch." Dad said, and Archie spotted two blonde heads behind him. Dad stood out of the way, letting them into the kitchen. He stiffened – he hadn't expected Harry's friends to come seeking him out, and for a moment, he didn't know what to do.

He had no reason to like them. Memories swirled in his head – two pretty, poisonous gifts for Harry in their first year, books about pureblood wizarding genealogy and contact books that were more like dossiers. The first time Archie had met them, at the third-year Gala, when Draco Malfoy seemed proud, looking forward to upholding pureblood supremacy to the world, when they had insulted Harry and hurt her so deeply with their cold attitudes. The fourth-year Gala, when Malfoy had written off AIM without even a second thought, when Harry had been both happy to see them, and sad that they didn't see her. But there were other memories there, too – Pansy Parkinson, dancing with Harry at the third year Gala. Archie, acting as John Hale, infusing his character with shades of Malfoy, of Nott, thinking that maybe they had simply never known any different, trying for some understanding. Malfoy, saving Harry's life at the end of their third year. Harry, being so happy when she told Archie about her friends.

At least he was wearing his AIM sweatshirt, Archie thought vaguely as he swallowed, feeling Hermione take his hand and hold it tight. His sweatshirt should be an easy physical signifier that he was _not Harry_.

He wanted to tell them to go. Harry wasn't here, and Archie wasn't their friend, and he wanted to smash through the boundaries that he and Harry had set and yell at them all the things he had wanted to yell at them before. He wanted to rage at Malfoy for every little comment he had ever said to Harry that might have hurt her, and he wanted to dig into them, hard, about the world their families had helped create, the world where he and Harry had to do the ruse for her to go to Hogwarts, where Harry was now a fugitive because she had been charged with some hundred-odd crimes, the world where the lines they had drawn, between Muggle and wizarding, between pureblood and Muggleborn, had cost him his _Mum._

But that wasn't fair to them. They were just kids – they weren't the ones who created that world, and maybe they were just the lucky ones. They were the ones that never needed to question, because the laws didn't affect _them_. They were the ones that hadn't lost anything, because the world that had been created for them, the world they _saw_, only benefitted them. They never saw the things they had lost, the things they had never known enough to miss. Maybe they were starting to see it now, with the loss of their best friend, and how was he supposed to handle that?

Harry wouldn't like for him to fly off the handle at her friends. She had wanted them to like her for _her, _he remembered – she had tried so hard for them to like her at the Galas, only for them to shut her out. For Harry, he still had to try to protect this friendship. If they even still wanted to be her friends, knowing that she was a halfblood.

"I'll be leaving now. Pansy. Malfoy." Aldon made to head for the fireplace, reaching for the Floo, but Archie grabbed the sleeve of his robes. See, that was something robes were good for – there was so much extra cloth, it was easy for him to grab onto Aldon, to stop him from going!

"Al," Archie choked out, his voice dry. He couldn't _believe_ this was the approach he was taking. "Al, help me out here. Pureblood etiquette question."

Aldon raised an eyebrow. "A pureblood etiquette question." He repeated the words slowly, skepticism lining his words. Then he tilted his head a little, clearly picking up on Archie's panic. "What is it?"

"Formal introductions," Archie babbled. He did not want to be left with Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, even if he had Dad there, even if he had Hermione there. It was too weird, the collision of worlds, and it would be easier if there was someone else there that could help him bridge it. Someone who had _known_ Harry as Rigel Black, because he hadn't, and Hermione hadn't, and Dad hadn't really. "If I only met someone while pretending to be someone else, have I been formally introduced to them? Is it really _proper_ for me to have a conversation with them now as _myself_ without a formal introduction?"

He was grasping at straws, he was pretty sure, and he could tell from the slight tug on one side of Aldon's mouth that Aldon knew it. But Aldon still seemed to think about it seriously, taking one look at the two Heirs. "I suppose not, no."

"Would you…" Archie begged him with his eyes. It wasn't the Look, which had fallen into disfavour as he had grown older. This was a different look, still pleading, but with less innocent need, more respectful demand, more _obligation_. "Please?"

There was another pause, as Aldon turned to look at the two newcomers, then he sighed heavily, turning back and sitting down properly at the kitchen table. "Very well. Arcturus Rigel Black, may I present to you Draco Malfoy, the Malfoy Family Heir, and Pandora Parkinson, the Parkinson Family Heiress. Lord Black, I assume you need no introduction."

"Oh, and I'm chopped liver, am I?" Hermione's voice was acerbic, biting as she threw the words across the table.

"Not at all, Hermione. I just didn't think you would care to be acquainted with the Heirs to two of the most highly respected and powerful SOW Party families." Aldon's expression was amused, though Archie half-suspected that he was as unsettled as Archie himself. He was too purposely relaxed, his hands idle and loose while he leaned back casually in his seat. "I'm giving you an out."

"My girlfriend, Hermione Granger," Archie supplied instead, squeezing her hand – as much for himself as to reassure her. How the hell were formal introductions supposed to go, anyway?

"We are truly honoured that the two of you have found time in your schedules to visit." Aldon's voice light, gentle, a host's gesture, but Archie could hear the mockery colouring his words. Malfoy and Parkinson could too, he was sure. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Oh, come off it, Rosier." Malfoy snapped, stalking into the warm kitchen and putting his hands on the table. An aggressive stance – he hadn't sat down, only walked in and set his hands, shoulder-width apart, on the kitchen table. Archie exchanged a look with his Dad, whose expression had tightened a little at the gesture. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Consulting." Aldon crossed his arms over his chest, a smile curling on his lips. "And you?"

"We're worried about Harry," Parkinson ventured, her voice soft, heartfelt, and her wide blue eyes spoke of genuine concern. She walked gracefully into the kitchen, resting on hand on Malfoy's arm – the blond boy straightened, adopting a position of casual ease, one hand covering hers.

"We were hoping you might have news about her." Malfoy's tone was abrupt. "That you might tell us where she went, how she's doing…"

"She's a fugitive, how do you think she's doing?" Aldon laughed, light, bell-like laughter that still sounded jagged, as he leaned forward, folding his hands on the kitchen table. His orange eyes were narrowed in hostility. "Do not lie to me. Arch, Pansy is worried, but Malfoy is at least half-lying. My guess is, he came hoping to find Rigel, hoping none of it was true, that it was all an elaborate prank. How does it feel, Malfoy, finding out that your best friend is a halfblood? How does it feel knowing that your father's policies have her running for her life? Will you still stand by her, knowing that she's not pure, betraying your family? Or will you take whatever we might be foolish enough to tell you back to the Ministry, joining the hunt to bring her to justice? Your family motto is blood over honour, isn't it?"

"Aldon!" Archie snapped, taken aback by his new friend's icy rage. Having him stay was a mistake. Aldon's words were still light, still mocking, but he had honed it to a knife-like edge. "They were Harry's best friends! Of course, they're worried about her."

"Tell them _nothing_, Archie." Aldon leaned back in his chair. "They might have been Rigel's friends, but they are not Harry's friends, and they are not your friends. You don't know who they will tell. You ought not have said that Hermione was your girlfriend. She will be used against you, now."

"We wouldn't do that!" Parkinson's voice was shrill as she turned to Aldon, her expression openly hurt, heartbroken, and there were tears in her voice, a hint of them in her blue eyes. "How could you even say that, Aldon? You know me!"

There was a long pause as Aldon stared at her, considering.

"You are an absolutely _peerless_ liar, Pansy." Aldon's voice was delicate, a cat's soft purr. "Really, none better, stellar performance. I like you, Pansy, I really do – but I will still counsel Archie to tell you nothing."

"Archie," Malfoy repeated, looking now at Archie. "_Archie?"_

"Yeah, that would be me." Archie smiled, a little apologetically, trying to smooth the waters. He couldn't deny that watching Aldon ask all the questions some part of him wanted to ask wasn't _satisfying_, but the longer he had watched, the more he had realized that just wasn't him. He wasn't prepared to pull out the stops like that, to whip hurtful accusations at someone else, and Harry had cared _deeply _for her friends. "You were Harry's best friends, and I know Harry cared for you both very much. I wish I could tell you something, but I don't know anything. I know that when I last spoke to her, more than a month ago, she was fine. I don't know where she's gone, and if you truly care for her, don't look for her. Not while the charges hang over her. Let her go – she's safer abroad than here."

"You spoke to her." Malfoy's grey eyes narrowed, and Archie heard a sigh from beside him. Damn it – it had been a thoughtless comment, just something to reassure them, not _information_. "When? How? Is she in America?"

"We had other ways of communicating." Archie shook his head, pressing his lips tight as he glanced at Dad again. Dad had been quiet, waiting for them to work it out themselves – this was between him and Harry's friends, or maybe it was between Harry and her friends, and unless things got out of hand, Dad would let Archie work it out. What would he have said, anyway? "We don't anymore, so I'm the same as you – I have no idea where she has gone, or how she is doing, but I trust that she is doing well."

"She should be here – she should be surrounded by her friends, her family, after such a traumatic experience." Malfoy turned away, swallowing.

"Oh, for goodness' sake. If she didn't have hundred-odd charges against her, maybe she would be," Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Stop crying and pretending like this isn't the _exact result_ of the pureblood supremacist policies that your families have pushed for decades."

There was something like a laugh from Archie's other side, and Archie was reminded again of why Hermione and Aldon didn't just come out and kill each other. They fought about most things – they fought about their attitudes, about their methods, about how to solve a problem, but when it came down to it, they did have the same goals.

"Unless there's anything else…" Archie let the words drift, into an awkward silence. He didn't want to kick them out, but he didn't really see what other reason they should stay. They weren't friends. They were here to find out about Harry, and they had found out everything they were going to find out. What else was there? What else had they in common?

Archie was getting ready to stand trial, and he wanted to turn the world as they knew it upside down. What was he supposed to say?

"Thank you, Arcturus," Malfoy said abruptly, his posture ramrod straight and stiff. "For your time."

"You're very welcome, and it's Archie." Archie hesitated, standing up. "I can show you out, if you want."

"No need." Malfoy waved a hand, then held his arm out for Parkinson to take. "I hope the next time we meet, it will be under better circumstances."

"I think we can both hope for that," Archie replied agreeably, sitting back down, with the kindest smile he could muster. "It's what Harry would have wanted."

XXX

They were barely out of the front gate before she spoke.

"I told you that this was a bad idea." Pansy sighed. "Aldon was a surprise, but he has been odd, withdrawn, over the past several weeks… I ought to mention it to Father. Otherwise, I think that went about as well as we could reasonably expect."

"How can she just _disappear_, though?" Draco ground his teeth a little, then he snapped his fingers for his house-elf. It was rude to come, uninvited, to another noble manor house through methods like the Floo, so he had asked one of the Malfoy house-elves to transport them. The house-elf appeared – she had simply been lurking nearby, out of sight. "Tiffin! Malfoy Manor, please."

"Of course, Master Draco," the elf-said, taking their arms and Disapparating them with a crack, returning them to the comfortable Malfoy gardens. Draco nodded his thanks to her, and she bustled off, returning to her usual chores.

It had taken the two of them weeks to come to terms with the ruse, but if there was one thing Draco Malfoy knew, it was that Rigel Black, or _Harry Potter_, as it turned out, needed their help. She always had. She had always been a magnet for trouble, she had always struggled with asking for help, and now she was on the run. Of course, she needed their help. They still loved her, and they were still behind her, as much as they could be. Draco's hands were a little tied right now, but through her marriage meetings, Pansy had some connections abroad. She had asked around in France, since they both knew that Rigel spoke French, so it seemed like as good a bet as any.

It was only when they hit a wall that Draco had insisted on reaching out to the real _Arcturus Rigel Black_, and they had thought they were prepared for just about anything. And yet, somehow, he could never have imagined the scene he had been greeted with: the Black Heir flirting outrageously with a Muggleborn (Draco had heard the accent), in common Muggle clothes, proudly wearing the insignia of a second-rate American school, taking a common nickname instead of the name of the stars that had been given him. It was shocking, almost offensive.

"And they have a point, Drake – we can search for her, but I still don't think that she should be coming back, now." Pansy's voice was musing, even if, by her expression, she was less than happy about it. "She _has_ been charged with a lot of criminal offences."

"But if she were just _back here_, we could do something about that." He and Pansy had been arguing about this for weeks. Draco thought that it was better for Harry to come home – there was no reason why they couldn't make an exception for Harry Potter in these circumstances. She was brilliant, she was powerful – she was like Uncle Severus, obviously an exception to the usual rules. He was sure that, once she came home, he could help guide her into a prominent position in the SOW Party, just like Uncle Severus. It didn't matter that she was a halfblood, she acted far more pureblooded than most, including the real Black Heir. And, with the Marriage Law on the horizon, all she needed to do was marry a pureblood and she would be legally a pureblood. It was so simple.

Home was where she should be, where she would be surrounded by her family, by her friends, by people who loved her. Home was where she would recover from the obvious trauma she had to have suffered, having been kidnapped by a madman, and she had had such a hard four years before that too. Home was where Draco was, where Pansy was, home was where they could show her that nothing had changed, not _really_. They still loved her, even if her name was Harry Potter and not Rigel Black, even if she was a girl and not a boy, even if she wasn't pure. They would make it work, because the alternative was accepting that Rigel Black had never existed, and neither had their friendship.

Pansy thought that even if they managed to track her down, they should only provide her support from abroad. They could help her with money, with their connections, but she could not come home, not until they dealt with the charges.

"I don't know." Pansy lowered her voice, a careful glance to both sides of her, though Draco knew they were nowhere near the listening spells that littered the gardens. "There's only so much we can do. Her magical power is one thing, but I don't know how far that will go, not for a scandal on this scale. Her mother's spell, a week ago – they're talking about naming it a _Great Work of Magic_, but the Potters are certainly not welcome in the Wizengamot right now. How are you doing with the charges?"

Draco sighed, looking away. "Not well," he admitted. "I've been talking to Father and Mother, but… no luck yet."

Pansy shook her head. "Until then, I don't think she _can_ return. Not if we can't guarantee her safety, Drake."

"Pans…" Draco looked at her again, taking a breath. He had an idea, but he wasn't sure it was a good one. It didn't _seem_ that terrible – not if Harry was in a safe country, and they couldn't even know that unless they tracked her down. "Black did tell us something. He said _when they last spoke_. He had some other way of communicating with her, and he – or Harry – even mentioned it, last summer when he – Black, I suppose – was under Quarantine in the Darien Gap. What do you think?"

"Like a communication orb, or something like that." Pansy had always been quick on the uptake. "You're thinking…"

"I report it." Draco took a deep breath. "They're one unit, so they could track one with the other. They can find Harry's using Black's."

Pansy sucked in a breath. "Drake…"

"No, think about it, Pans." Draco's words quickened as he thought it through. "We can't do _anything_ without knowing where she is. If we report it, they might be able to track her down, and if she's in a safe country, then we know where she is, we can help her. Just reporting it doesn't mean she'll come back necessarily – we can deal with that part when we come to it."

"I don't know." Pansy hesitated. "I see your point, but if they find her, they'll try to extradite her back to Wizarding Britain. We don't know where she is, we don't know how that country will react, we don't know where we'll be on getting the charges lifted. I don't like it."

"Do we have any other choices, now?" Draco reached for her hand. "We were at a dead end, before – that was why you agreed to come see Black with me."

Pansy didn't look at him, studying the flowers as she thought. Draco didn't disturb her. She was thinking about it, and she would fold. She had to fold. They _were_ at a dead end, otherwise, and Pansy worried about Rigel almost as much as he did.

"All right," she said finally, decisively. "But only because Black said that whatever they had didn't work anymore. Even if they track it down, I expect we'll just find out where she has been, and at least they will give us a new place to start our searches again."

Draco smiled, relieved, and squeezed her hand. They had a new lead, and they could keep looking for her, and someone, somewhere, had to know something. Harry Potter couldn't just have disappeared – Draco would keep looking for her until he found her.

Then he would smack her upside the head for worrying them so much, and he would yell at her. Then he would hug her, they both would, and he would make her swear never to do anything like that ever again, and they would set about making everything right again.

XXX

John stared at the book in front of him, puzzling out the notation as he held down three strings on the fretboard and hit the strings with his pick. It didn't sound right. After an hour, it still didn't sound right. His fingers hurt.

John couldn't play the guitar, but there wasn't no better time to begin learning. Archie was understandably preoccupied with his upcoming trial, Chess was still working for her dad and obsessing over her ACD, and it wasn't like John was any help with that other than as an experimental test subject. Other than sightseeing trips (mainly to castles), hanging out with Archie, his early morning workout and a bit of Duelling every now and then with Sirius and Remus, he was at loose ends.

The guitar was a cool instrument, and all the best music in the world was for guitar, so why not? He hummed the words under his breath.

"Once I rose above the noise and confusion, just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion, I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high…" He tried to strum along on his guitar, but his hands were too slow, fumbling through the chords.

He sounded like shit. Complete and utter shit. But at least there was nowhere to go but up, and once he figured it out, wouldn't Gerry be so impressed?

In Britain, it was at least easier to get out to call him from a public pay phone. Chess thought he was mooning a little much, considering he had only spent a couple weeks with Gerry over the Tournament, but Gerry was just…

Like Hermione and Archie, he was strong, he was passionate, he was courageous and willing to take a stand. But he and his friends were also willing to take a stand for something that simply did not affect them. Gerhardt Riemann was a German pureblood, the exact sort of stock of which Grindelwald, of which Lord Riddle would approve. He thought that Gerhardt's family had even been on the side of Grindelwald during the Wars, but that was where the similarities ended. Gerry was vehement in his opposition to any and every form of blood discrimination, because they had already seen the world to which that led. In the Grindelwald Wars, the Second World War, and in the Holocaust.

The offer Gerry had made, sanctuary for blood refugees, hadn't been an idle one. Gerhardt Riemann had had his pick of jobs on graduation, and he had picked a policy analyst position at the Department of International Affairs at the German Ministry of Magic. From what he had told John, he was working on making his offer a reality. Soon, there would be a streamlined process in Germany for British blood refugees, and John thought he was the greatest person in the world for it.

"Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man, though my mind could think, I still was a madman, I hear the voices when I'm dreaming, I can hear them say…" He hit the fretboard, trying to make his idiot fingers move faster through the chords. "Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more!"

There was an awkward throat clearing noise from the door to the formal sitting room, also known as that weird other common space where everyone seemed to go when they didn't really want to be bothered but also didn't want to shut themselves away. He looked up, seeing Aldon Rosier standing in the doorway.

Aldon's thoughts buzzed in his head, like a poorly tuned radio. He caught snatches, a word here, a fragment there, but not everything. Aldon's Occlumency shields were weak, and it wouldn't take much for John to rip them away, if he wanted.

He wondered if he should mention something about that to him. He could give Aldon a better grounding in the basics of Occlumency, which he sorely needed if he was going to accomplish half of what he wanted to do, but like Hermione, Aldon hadn't asked. And he also wasn't a close enough friend for John to say, _and by the way, your shields are shit. Want some help with that?_

He had tried that on Hermione, some three months after he had gotten to know her. She had glared at him, and eventually John had just given her a bunch of solid Occlumency textbooks to study from, the kind that had practice problems and things, and he let her know every now and then what was working and what wasn't. She was all right now, as far as he could tell, but it wasn't as if he had ever assaulted her mind to test her shields fully. She wasn't like Archie, who let him assault his shields as a training exercise every couple of months.

From the snatches that John caught, Aldon thought he sounded terrible. Since John agreed, he wasn't offended. "What's up?"

"I was wondering if you had time to talk?" Aldon looked a little uncertain, almost, though his thoughts seemed to be fixated on _he had to ask now, before he forgot. Again. _John shrugged and set down his guitar. "I wanted to ask you some questions about your magical channelling method, the new one."

"Magical channelling method?" John cocked his head to one side, confused, until he caught a few more fragments from Aldon's mind. Something about the Tournament, something about his arm. "Oh, do you mean the ACD?"

"The…" Aldon walked in and sat down, leaning forward curiously. "ACD?"

"Assistive casting device." John held it out to show him – the ACD wasn't on, since he didn't need it right now, but the batteries were full. It was a bit of a different model than the one that he had had in the Tournament, a little sleeker, but the real improvements Chess had managed over the past few months mostly related to power conservation. It would now run for six hours continuously, give or take, and she was working on making it lighter with some new, thinner plastics.

Aldon leaned forward, a little hesitant, eyeing the white plastic, the dark panel in the middle where the proto-runes would appear for the Fortis shield. He reached out, touching the dark panel with one curious finger. "How does it work, if you don't mind me asking?"

John raised an eyebrow, hiding a laugh. Chess had been annoyed at Aldon for weeks, muttering about how he had underestimated her and her precious baby, and Aldon didn't even know that the ACD was hers? That was awesome. That was _amazingly_ awesome.

Aldon also happened to think that he and Chess were engaged, by the snatches that John had caught every now and then, which was just such a hilarious thought that John hadn't bothered to correct him. To make things even more entertaining, Aldon thought she was beautiful, and every now and then John would catch some hint of resigned jealousy, namely how John was _lucky son of a bitch. _It was too bad he couldn't share the humour with anyone else – even Chess would probably just find it weird and kind of gross and put a boot into his fun by telling Aldon that no, they weren't engaged.

"No fucking clue," he replied cheerfully, pulling his arm away. That wasn't strictly accurate – he knew a bit of the basics, from what Chess had explained over the years, but it was more fun this way. And Chess had to stop avoiding him sometime, it may as well be now. Social interaction was good for her. "Why are you asking me, anyway? Why not the inventor?"

"The inventor?" Aldon looked taken aback, though there was a twitch when John swore. Aldon was so _uptight_ about his language, even if he swore like a sailor in his own head. When he was upset or annoyed, his shields wavered, which meant that John got more than his fair share of Aldon's swear words.

"Yeah, Monster, also known as Chess, also known as Francesca. Little Asian girl, about five foot two but often pretends like she's five foot four, likes romance novels, dance, and technology." The expression on Aldon's face was priceless – stunned disbelief warring with a sharp spike of jealousy warring with Aldon kicking himself. John couldn't help but poke the bear a little more. "What, just because she's pretty means she can't be smart?"

"Of course not," Aldon snapped, his denial too sharp. An unconscious bias he hadn't known he had, that he was now rejecting, based on the pieces that John was now picking up. "From a magical theory perspective, the ACD is fascinating. If you can't answer, would you introduce me to her?"

"Sure, why not?" John shrugged casually, catching another fragment of thought. Something about how it just wasn't _fair _that John's betrothed was both stunning and a brilliant magical theorist. He hid a smile. "Fair warning – she's kind of mad at you, she says you underestimated the ACD in the Tournament and that she improved both rate of casting and power conserved by far more than a factor of three. She was my strategist, you know."

XXX

Francesca was hitting a wall. Again.

Walls, puzzles, obstacles, all of those had been common over the past few years. She hadn't invented the ACD easily – it was a device that had come with blood, sweat, and so many tears, but it worked! It worked, and she had a functioning prototype for John, but then she had slammed into this wall, and she was stuck. She had been for months. Nearly a year, truth be told.

She didn't know enough about magic. John had been a lucky case – his magical frequency matched well with the electromagnetic wavelength of gallium-nitride blue LEDs, so hitting resonance was easy for him. She had gotten lucky with the proto-runes – the paper that she had found had actually taken apart and used the _Fortis_ spell as an exemplar, so she didn't need to work out the methodology in any detail, though she was _convinced_ that the basics of the proto-rune theory laid out in the paper could be used to construct more efficient, effective spells. Once that was done, she would be able to put in a microcontroller, and she would have to make something more conservative of space that would still emit light at the frequency of GaN blue LEDs, and then because John would be able to select between spells, she would need to develop some sort of a user interface.

And all of that was just the beginning. It still didn't help Francesca turn the ACD into something that could be widely used. Magical frequencies were complex, and what worked for John didn't work for anyone else. That was good, but she needed to find a way to work out someone's magical frequency to build around them. Either that, or she needed to break her ACD from its reliance on resonance to work. Maybe both.

She counted out the problems, and they were all so overwhelming – she did not want a device that only did one spell, that only worked for one person. She wanted a device that could be customized for every mage, that would cast whatever spell she wanted, and of course she wanted it to cast faster and more efficiently than a wand did. She wanted a device, a _better_ magical channelling method that would render all other channelling methods obsolete.

Or, at least, send wand-users the way of paper-casters and heirloom-casters, reducing the primacy of that _one_ instrument. In her dream world, being Wandless would not be an insult. Being Wandless would be the default_, _and people would have to go out of their way to pick up and learn how to use a wand. And most people wouldn't, because her method would be _better_.

But that was a long way away, because the only improvements she had made over the past few months had been on the things that didn't really matter, not for her key problems. Her improvements were in energy conservation, so the batteries would run longer, and in the weight of the device overall. And even that – a six-hour battery life was _not enough_.

If only there was an auto-charging mechanism where the person could use their magic to top up the batteries, or to run the device off their core! But that required more understanding of the interaction between magic and electricity, to connect them and control the interaction instead of just blocking them off from each other. It required more basic research, something bigger and broader than just her and John.

At least some of her experiments thinning the plastics and the layer of aerogel she needed were working, she thought grumpily. The Potter Potions lab was far better than the Black one, which had been turned into a swimming pool. Not that Francesca had any problems with pools, since it was really a very nice use of the space, but it had meant she didn't have anywhere to work on the magical blocking potion until they had access to Potter Place. Even if she _did_ have to take the cursed Floo to get there, and even if the giant, quad-Amplification loop inked onto the floor in the lab was kind of creepy.

She had examined it, the first time she had come in. It was huge, stretching halfway across the floor, centred on the bench closest to the doors. The location was meant to tap into any residual traces of Harry Potter, boosting the connection for the song – a place where Harry had spent a lot of time, where maybe the objects would remember her magical signature, would weave a little extra power into the compulsion spell, since Lady Potter had been demanding information about her daughter. Francesca had taken a song-casting class last year, since she didn't need a wand for it, but something like this was far beyond her abilities. She had a general idea of what was done, but she didn't have the kind of magical power to even dream about this kind of spell. The whole set up was unnerving, so she had set up her cauldron in a back corner as far away as possible, brewing up enough blocking potion for her next set of larger scale tests, then gotten out of there.

The current version, her sixth, seemed to be holding up all right. She had essentially created a larger version of the containment cases that she used for the CD players, but this time she had put a boombox inside, which would hopefully be audible from outside the containment so she would know exactly when her protections failed. The backyard was an excellent place for testing – her fourth version had cracked a bit, releasing the potion, and while Sirius had _said_ that he hated that rug anyway, she figured it would probably better to play things safe. The sixth version was on its third day, which was the best so far!

She brought the boombox outside and set it the ground, checking the casing over quickly for cracks or anything of the like. She didn't see any, so she pressed _play_, then took position as the first few notes came out into the air.

It wasn't typically her taste in music, but this song spoke to her, in a way that some songs did. It _wanted_ her to dance to it, it _wanted _her to give it a routine that would express everything about it perfectly, that would make an audience weep. She didn't know what that routine was, yet, but it would come to her in time. For now, she relaxed, let the notes fill her and take her away.

She used the spiral ascent, the first one she had ever learned, because it was elegant. It was elegant, and the opening of this song was too, even if its content was the tragedy of war. That was why it worked – the contrast between the beauty and the sorrow made them both more poignant. She went a little higher than normal into the air, forty-five feet as opposed to the competition regulation of thirty, then let herself go, let the music speak through her.

Magical dance was unlike anything else in the world. It wasn't like No-Maj dance – it was more like a conglomeration of No-Maj dance with figure-skating, diving, and a touch of gymnastics, with a heavy dose of illusion magic. Magical dance wasn't just beautiful, it was powerful, it was athletic. It required skill and practice and too many hours with a headache from trying to manage multiple spells at once, too many falls on her face in bad landings. But it was something else, too – it was _magic, _and magical dance was what reminded Francesca that, wand or not, she was still a mage. Magical dance didn't use wands.

Some parts of the song were slow, Dolores O'Riordan's words a mournful croon, and for these parts Francesca went with contemporary dance, moving with languid grace, expressing her sorrow through her body. Forget the little runic air-hardening charms drawn on shoes, that beginner dancers relied on – for Francesca, the rune for the air-hardening charm was in her mind, underneath her, as big and as broad as it needed to be for her to fall, for her to catch herself, for her to roll through the air and spin back to her feet at the end. The runes for the coloured fog were in her mind, and with expert precision she looped that rune onto her pinky finger, tossing it below her, and she knew that it would hold without her paying much attention to it. The fog there, grey, was the fog of war, and she prepared the next sets of spells carefully in her mind, pinning them on her fingers. All it would take were little _flicks_, and the fog of war would be lit from within by sparks of gunfire and electricity.

The slow parts of the song were meant for her to show her _artistry. _Artistry was her grace, her beauty, how _pretty_ the judges thought her piece was, and it was the bane of Francesca's existence. _Artistry_ was why she hadn't won the women's soloist competition last year, because she had blown the winner's technical score out of the water. She had blown everyone's technical score out of the water. But they said she didn't show enough passion, enough anger, even though Francesca had been the first person in history to throw real lightning around in a dance competition. Then she had stood there, third place, and she had wept on the podium, tears of rage and devastation, and thank heaven that the judges had thought she was crying because she was _so__ happy_ about placing third, when she had wanted first.

The song picked up, into the chorus, and Francesca leapt into what would become the more technical portion of the routine. Air-hardening charm and glide spell as she headed into her first jumping spin-pass, leaping into what would be, in figure-skating, a double axel, catching herself with another glide spell and air-hardening charm, then a single axel jump turning into a low spin. For this section, she pulled her lightning spell, a real attack spell, sending it crashing through the centre of her routine as she turned around it. Her timing had been perfect – the lightning spell capped off the first chorus, and they were back into the slow, mournful sound of the verses.

_Another mother's breaking heart is taking over. When the violence causes silence, we must be mistaken. It's the same old theme, since 1916, in your head, in your head, they're still fighting... _The second verse was darker than the first, and she dropped a little in height, dancing on top of her own coloured fog. John was there – she could feel him below her, but she ignored him. He would wait for her. The song was half-over, and she was lower to the ground, so she needed to climb back up another few feet for her finale. For now, her own fog wove around her, pulling her down, pulling her under as she danced struggle, she danced sorrow and sadness.

It was a minor explosive rune, thrown beneath her, that she timed with a jump ascent to push herself back up. Ten metres was the regulation standard for the finale drop, and with this song, with these lyrics, she had to do a hard landing. This was a song about the tragedy of war, and an elegant, perfect landing just didn't work. Her ending tumble-pass had to be broken. It had to be graceless, it had to be raw, it had to be as ugly as war – that's what the song wanted. Like war, her dance had to start elegant, proud and glorious, and then it had to fall apart, because war was not elegant, war was not proud, and war was not glorious, and only then would the song be seen.

She fell. On purpose, she fell, a back tuck, and she managed to put two rotations, head over heels, before rolling into position for a hard landing, her arms splayed and primed with strength runes, which would prevent her from injuring herself. She would land with the exact last note of this song, and it would be _perfect_.

"Arresto Momentum!"

The voice was wrong. The _spell_ was wrong, and Francesca's eyes jerked open as she, against her will, slowed down and tumbled gently, harmlessly, on the grass. It was only a fraction of a second, but the moment was gone – her perfect landing was gone!

She shot to her feet, looking for the newcomer. Golden eyes, like glowing amber, a little wide in shock, with messy dark hair and a narrow, pointed nose. Aldon Rosier, standing beside John.

She straightened her skirt primly, smoothing it to hide the slight tremble in her hands, and glared at her best friend. _You didn't say you had brought someone with you. He wrecked the ending of my routine! I had it timed just right._

_It was very pretty anyway, Chess. Cut him a break, he hasn't seen magical dance before, he thinks you fell. And you didn't look. _John shrugged a little.

_I don't like strangers, John. _Francesca tucked one strand of hair behind her ear with one trembling hand, fixing it from where it had fallen out of place during her dance. _You know I don't like strangers. What am I supposed to say to him? Hello, Aldon. You wrecked the ending of my routine. And my ACD improves casting time and spell efficiency by factors of six and eighteen, not three._

_Monster, he's hardly a stranger. He's been hanging around every day for about two weeks. You'll have to talk to him eventually, it might as well be now. _John cleared his throat, motioning for Aldon to join him as he walked towards her. "Aldon, this is Francesca Lam. I call her Monster or Chess. Chess, Aldon Rosier. He has some questions about the ACD."

Aldon bowed at her, stiffly formal, and Francesca glanced over at John again. _Why is he bowing? What am I supposed to do in return? Am I supposed to bow too? I don't get it._

_Nobles. _John rolled his eyes slightly. _I don't think there's a wrong answer._

Aldon did seem to be waiting for a response, so Francesca dipped a curtsey. It was a dancer's curtsey, something they did at the end of a performance, thanking the audience and the judges for watching them, and she was sure that it was nothing like a noble curtsey at all. Still, it was better than saying anything, and she didn't know what to say anyway.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lam," he offered, his voice a little hesitant. Francesca was sure there was some part to this ritual she was missing. "Please, call me Aldon."

"Francesca," she replied bluntly. Only John and Archie called her Chess, and only John called her Monster. She glanced at John again. _What now?_

_He wants to know about the ACD. _John tilted his head. _Come on, talking isn't that hard, Chess. Conversation isn't that hard. Just pretend like he's one of us, or a new person in your dorm. You do all right in your dorm._

_At school, I pretend like the new people in Holmes Wing don't exist for three months, and by then they're just part of the group. And even then, I don't talk a lot to them. You know that. _Francesca sighed a little, turning her focus back on Aldon, watching him warily. "The ACD. It's mine. What, um, do you want to know?"

"I was hoping you would be so kind as to give me an overview of how it works?" His voice seemed genuinely hopeful, curious, but Francesca was too smart to take that at face value. Sometimes people asked about what she was doing, what she was reading, what she was experimenting with, to try to get something else from her, or to try to get something to use against her. Like with the stupid CD player cases – people would try to butter up to her, pretending an interest, pretending to be her friend, only to be angry or disappointed and yell at her when she didn't just up and give them one. She supposed the most fortunate thing was that, three years of No-Maj Studies or not, people who understood No-Maj science were still so rare that at least she didn't really need to worry about anyone scooping her – she could take her time until her inventions were perfect, until they were ready to be shown to the world.

Francesca didn't want to publish one or two little papers here and there, nor did she want to get bogged down on side projects like CD player cases when they were only a means to her final product. She wanted to release the final ACD when it was _finished_, completed and perfect, and watch it change spell-casting forever.

She tilted her head, glancing over at John, who sighed in return.

_He's all right, Chess. Uptight, but that's the noble upbringing, I think. He's genuinely curious – he likes magical theory. And someone from Hogwarts isn't going to have the kind of background to steal your ideas._

_Ugh, fine. _"The ACD uses, um, a lot of No-Maj scientific principles to work. I don't think – no, um, I don't know if you would understand it even if I did, um, explain it?"

John put his head in his hands.

"No offence intended, of course," Francesca added hastily, looking down at the ground. It wasn't that she didn't want someone to help her with the ACD, it was that the list of people she would trust to help her with it was vanishingly small. There was John, a great experimental subject, and there was Professor Ryan, who provided oversight and talked her through the complicated electrical engineering hardware concepts she was still weak on.

Aldon tilted his head a little, a half-smile coming onto his lips. "I understand your nervousness – the ACD is a remarkable invention, with a lot of applications in sensitive areas. Would it help you to know that I have a thorough grounding in magical theory? And I have also worked quite a lot with new inventions before – my… biological mother runs the division of the Rosier Investment Trust responsible for investment in new wizarding technologies, and I interned there for two summers. Most recently, we funded the development of the Firebolt, and we have other projects on the go as well, such as improvements to Omnioculars, and so on." He paused. "Or, they do, I suppose."

That got a bit more of Francesca's attention. Magical theorist, with experience at what sounded like some sort of venture funding firm, specifically in a group that worked with new technologies. She did need someone with a better grounding in magical theory.

But that didn't mean he wouldn't try to steal her ideas. Having a knowledgeable magical theorist falling in her lap, when she was struggling with some of those exact concepts, someone who had connections to venture funding, that was far too good to be true.

Good things didn't just happen to Francesca. The last random good thing that had happened to her was finding out she was a mage and going to AIM and look how that had turned out. She was not like Archie – even if AIM held many good things, like John and dance, it also held a lot of hurt. She would be all too happy to leave.

She remembered how excited she had been, taking the Portkey from San Francisco to AIM with her luggage, carrying her new robes, her new spellbooks, her new wand. She remembered fighting with her parents to let her go at all, since she had been doing so well in her accelerated program at No-Maj school that she had gotten into the top high school in the city three years early. But this was _magic_, and she had fought so hard to be allowed to go. That first day at AIM had been wonderful, and she had worked up the courage to talk to those three kids, all in her dorm, who had an extra seat at their table. Somehow, they had let her join them, and then, miraculously, they had let her keep hanging out with them when everything changed.

She remembered too well the change – the fact that magic just didn't work for her the way it seemed to work for Archie, or Hermione, or John. Not being able to cast _any_ spells, getting farther and farther behind with every class. All the theory in the world didn't seem to help, and people started to whisper about her, about how they _must_ have made a mistake, letting her in. Then those weeks when she had been pulled out of classes for testing, so much testing, not knowing whether they would kick her out or not, long weeks where the professors would send her to read at the back of the room while the _real_ mages got to play with magic. And the whispers turned to insults, both veiled and outright, and people started laughing at her, playing tricks on her, taking her things or tripping her between classes, hexing her, pranking her. Because it was funny, because she wasn't like them, because she couldn't do magic the way they could. Francesca was a mistake, and she should have left school instead of being a wandless embarrassment to AIM.

For Francesca, all the good things that happened to her were the result of endless work. She did well in dance because she practiced three hours per day, five days per week when she was at school; she succeeded on the ACD because she had obsessed over it for three years, spending all her spare time reading papers, thinking about it, trying new things and experimenting. Good things did not just happen to Francesca, and a well-connected magical theorist with a genuine interest in her work was absolutely too good to be true. He wanted something.

"I – I don't know," Francesca hedged, biting her lip. What would she say? She didn't want to be too rude turning him down. "I just – it's really complicated, you really need some understanding of No-Maj physics to even really get the base concept of how it works—"

"I can learn what I need to learn to understand, if you point me in the right direction." Aldon frowned slightly, but he didn't seem to be offended. "Please don't lie to me. It… irritates my magic."

He was a Truth-Speaker – right. Francesca wasn't entirely sure what had set him off since, strictly speaking, what she had said was true, but she flushed anyway. "Um, I don't know what to say? I, um, I worked really hard on the ACD. It's very important to me, and, um, as you say, it is sensitive. I – um, how do I say this?"

She looked to John, who was looking away from her, and his surface thoughts were completely useless. They were all about how it would be good for her to make more friends and interact more with new people, and if she had Aldon Rosier to geek out about magical theory with, hopefully he wouldn't be caught up in it as often. And, by the way John was now innocently staring into space, he planned on being no help to her at all.

"Are you concerned I have other motives for looking at your device?" Aldon asked, upfront, his voice rather gentle. Why was it that he sounded like that? He was always so cutting when he spoke to Hermione, dry and carefully polite when he talked to Archie. To John, he seemed to be reserved and almost a little subdued, but that gentle tone was different, new. "I promise I won't try to steal your invention, Francesca."

"And why – why should I trust you?" She shook her head, taking a small step back. "I – I don't really…"

She glanced over at John again – he met her eyes, this time. _Give him a chance, Chess. From what I've seen of his mind, he really does have an interest in magical theory, and he has worked evaluating potential new inventions for two summers. You've been stuck for awhile – maybe it's time for a change?_

"I'm not asking you to trust me, or at least not fully," Aldon tilted his head to one side, thinking about it. "Non-disclosure agreements are standard at the Rosier Investment Trust, because most inventors are hesitant to share their ideas without one. I can find a template for us to enter on charmed parchment, so you'll know if I've broken it, if you like. Would that make you feel more comfortable?"

Francesca looked at John again.

_Take a chance on him, Monster. A non-disclosure agreement sounds good, and it'll provide some protection for you. And if he hurts you, I'll fuck him up. Sound good?_

Francesca pressed her lips together, feeling very much like she had been pushed into a corner. "Fine," she said abruptly. "If – if you get the, um, non-disclosure agreement, I'll look at it. If it works out, I guess I can, um, walk you through it."

He had a template non-disclosure agreement to her within a few days, and if Francesca dawdled a little in reviewing it, well, who was to know? She _was_ busy.

XXX

"The two of you are insane," Percy announced, looking between Hermione and Aldon. He was pale, his blue eyes were wide, and his red curls were a mess from the number of times he had tugged at them over the past hour. Hermione and Aldon had researched the summoning ritual ad nauseum over the last week – with Percy's help, Hermione and Aldon had gotten access to legal libraries and had spent the last few days in a mad research tear, with pauses for vicious arguments at least twice a day. "I let you into the Inns of Court because I thought that, with further research, the two of you would move on from this crazy idea, not that you would become more determined to pursue it!"

Aldon and Hermione might have fought like cats and dogs, they might have spent more than a few hours casting aspersions on each other's intelligence, willpower, and common sense, and there might have been more than one hex thrown (Hermione had, Archie was proud to say, come out on top every time), but they had succeeded. They had hashed out far more details on how to summon Justice, and what would happen if they did so, and Aldon had even managed to get into the Wizarding Courts of Law in his guise as a noble heir to confirm that the ritual would still work. It would – he had found the traditional designs that he would need to use, on the steps to the top dais of the courtroom, and a well-meaning court clerk had helpfully explained to him that the top dais, with its simple, plain chair, represented Justice. No one was allowed to go back there, she had said, and in fact no one could. There was some sort of spell locking the top dais from everyone, and not even dust settled on that chair.

"It is a far better option than simply folding for the Ministry," Aldon said, a look of deep satisfaction on his face. "From our research, it really does appear that Justice follows higher principles than wizard-made law. She cares deeply about due process and keeping the law out of people's lives to the extent possible – do no harm, and do as you will, and all that. She does not care for morality laws overmuch. There's an infamous succession case from about 1103 involving adultery where she ruled that, since the King had clearly acknowledged the Crown Prince before his death, regardless of his actual parentage, she did not care whether he was, by blood, the King's son or not. I think it can be argued that blood identity theft is akin to a crime of morality, and it should be possible for us to argue to strike the law on that basis. If we strike blood identity theft as a law, then arguably, Archie has not committed any crime at all – at least, not within Wizarding Britain. We can argue that the law is unjust because it differentiates on blood status to certain groups' detriment, thereby interfering with their lives, and that there is no justified reason for doing so."

"There are disadvantages, too," Hermione said, pursing her lips. Aldon was a thousand percent behind this new plan, while Hermione was still cautious. "First, Justice has only ever been summoned to hear cases of national importance: royal succession, treason, regicide, and the like. We don't know whether Justice will hear this one—"

"But it is a case of national importance, if a little unorthodox, so that should be no issue," Aldon interrupted, throwing Hermione a glare. Hermione returned the glare, her eyes narrowing slightly, but Archie didn't worry. They wouldn't be too bad with Percy in the room.

"We don't know whether Justice will hear this one," Hermione repeated, daring Aldon with her eyes to interrupt again, "and it looks like, if Justice is called, it is automatically a capital offence or something similar. When Justice is called, it is blood, soul, and magic on the line, nothing less. There are no records of Justice, when called to hear a _trial_, issuing sentences like imprisonments or fines – on conviction, at best, it's a loss of some part of the person's magic. At worst, it's death or the loss of their soul."

"But that may only be because Justice is only called for matters of national importance," Aldon interrupted again, throwing Hermione a look that dared her to keep telling him what to do. "There's nothing conclusive recorded on that point, it's only taken as a given in the trial records."

"You are both insane," Percy repeated, looking from one to the other. "Justice has not been summoned in more than four hundred years – I did not think that was anything more than _legend_."

Hermione glanced at Aldon, an annoyed scowl coming onto her face. "On that point, I will regrettably have to agree with Aldon. Legends always have a basis in truth and the records themselves, taken in their totality, as well as the physical evidence of the courtroom show that it can be done, and that it was done in the past – not often, but maybe once a decade. The question is, should we?"

"They probably stopped doing it because they could not identify any Truth-Speakers." Aldon smirked. "My talent was never a common one, and it became somewhat rarer with passage of the Statute of Secrecy. In addition, even a gap of fifty years may be enough for wizards to forget that it was possible at all."

"Mages, Aldon, not wizards." Hermione's correction was sharp, even if Archie had to have heard it a dozen times just in the last month. "I'd appreciate it if you used gender-neutral terminology."

"You're in _Wizarding Britain_, Hermione." Aldon crossed his arms over his chest. "The recognized terminology here is _witch_ and _wizard_. Use them."

Archie held his hands up. "Can we get back to the topic, please? Aldon, I would appreciate the gender-neutral terminology, too."

Aldon scowled at him too, and it was plain as day that he had no intention of doing so. Archie sighed internally – he would have to find another way to convince him to adopt _mages_ in lieu of _witches and wizards_ later. Aside from being gender-neutral, it was also easier and faster!

"In any case," Aldon said, his words clipped with annoyance, as he turned back to Percy. "Wouldn't you like to run a trial out of legend? The first trial before Justice Herself in nearly five hundred years?"

"Not especially," Percy said bluntly, looking at Archie. "A trial before Lady Justice is inherently unpredictable, and I do not like unpredictability. Archie, I must counsel you against this ridiculous proposal – I can tell you what is likely to happen if you plead guilty, I can tell you what is likely to happen if you do not plead guilty, I can provide you with advice under the law as it was written. But if you choose to invoke _the Incarnation of Justice_, I cannot tell you what might happen, if it even works. Please, think this through – the trial is less than a week away, now."

Archie sighed, rubbing his forehead. It didn't seem like he had any good options. He could plead guilty – the Ministry's plea deal expired one minute after the trial began, and that would cut the fine by a third. He could plead guilty without taking the plea deal, and Percy was sure he could argue for an even lower fine than a thousand galleons. Neither of those were really options, though, because Archie did not want to plead guilty. He wouldn't reach his goal of drawing the most attention possible to the injustice of the blood discrimination laws if he pled guilty. Dad, though, wanted him to plead guilty – he wanted Archie to put this behind him and move on.

He could plead not guilty, and then there were the potential defense strategies. He could have Percy claw holes in the prosecution's evidence, but he knew he had done it, everyone knew he had done it, and if he did that, he felt like he would be weaselling out, pretending that something else _might _have happened. He could go with the necessity defense, but Hermione and Aldon both thought that was stupid in its absurdity, because it didn't really make any sense. He liked that one because then, he would be able to talk about all of Harry's good deeds, and because really – it was a _little_ true. Even if Archie had said no, Harry probably would have done something to go to Hogwarts anyway. He could see it happening. Or he could invoke his ancient, noble rights, and invoke Justice to preside over the trial, and they could make arguments _directly_ on whether the blood discrimination laws were _just. _But it sounded like that was the riskiest option, because neither Percy, nor Hermione, nor even Aldon could really predict what might happen. And, from Hermione's words, it sounded like it was the most dangerous option for _Archie. _Dad would hate it.

"No, you can't just _come in_," Archie heard Dad snapping. He looked to the doorway to the kitchen, standing up with a frown, and both Aldon and Hermione had their wands in hand. "Let me see that!"

"What is it?" Archie stood, taking a few steps towards the door. Something was wrong. Dad wouldn't sound like that otherwise – Dad was snarling, angry, trailing along behind two Aurors as they strode into the warm kitchen. Auror Dawlish, and someone that Archie didn't recognize. "Dad?"

"Arcturus Rigel Black," Auror Dawlish's words were brisk, professional. "We have a warrant to search your house in search of evidence of a crime. We received a tip stating that you have been in _communication_ with Harry Potter since her escape." He held up a piece of parchment, a look of cruel satisfaction on his face. "Your _absolute right of silence _won't help you here."

"Let me see that," Percy snapped, grabbing the parchment out of Auror Dawlish's hands. He scanned it quickly. "Archie, they have authorization to search for any communication orbs or similar that you might have with Harriett. Go get anything you might have."

Archie bobbed his head quickly, running upstairs for the mirror, passing six more Aurors on the way. He was _so _relieved that Harry had been warned about the connection and had either ditched or destroyed her mirror. Thank god for Chess, who had warned them, and for John, who had given him a strategy for this. He could hand over his half of the mirror without any worry whatsoever.

Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, though. Archie shook his head, disappointed, as he grabbed his Two-Way mirror off his bedside table. It had to have been them. No one else had heard about the mirror so recently, and of those who knew about it – John, Chess, Aldon, Hermione, his family – no one would have tipped the Aurors off. He had not really expected Malfoy or Parkinson to betray Harry like that – or, maybe, he had half-expected Malfoy to do something of the sort, but not Parkinson, whom he had, on his more objective moments, considered friendly enough. How could they?Friends did not betray each other, friends didn't even think about betraying each other, and even if Archie was not friends with them, he would have liked to think that they cared enough about _Harry_, at least, not to put her in more danger!

Maybe Harry's friendship meant less to them since she wasn't a pureblood, Archie thought, pressing his lips together. _Blood before honour_, Aldon had said the Malfoy motto was, and it certainly sounded like that was what he was following. If Archie had any way of communicating with Harry, he would have to tell her that, at her friends' first real test of loyalty, they had failed. They didn't deserve her – Harry could do so much better than friends who would sell her out at the first opportunity!

He headed back into the kitchen, handing the Two-Way mirror to Auror Dawlish with no ceremony. Dawlish held it up, examining it closely.

"Is this everything, Archie?" Percy asked, serious, folding up the search warrant slowly.

"Yes," Archie replied, but he couldn't resist adding a bit more. "It was only once, more than a month ago. I don't know where she is now, and I haven't heard from her."

Percy shook his head slightly, a motion for him to shut up before he said too much. "Thank you. Aurors, I assume this satisfies your search warrant. My client has been cooperative, and there is no need for anything further. Please leave, and take the Auror unit in the hallway with you."

Auror Dawlish looked up, eyebrow raised. "With only a Two-Way Mirror? I'm afraid this isn't satisfactory at all – how do we know that there isn't more? The warrant permits us to _search_ for all possible communication devices, not to accept what you and your client deem it acceptable for us to have. Aurors," he raised his voice, calling for the Aurors in the hallway, "search the manor, and look for anything odd, anything unusual! Remember that Harriett Potter is clever – seize anything that you don't recognize, since it could be a communication device!"

"Auror Dawlish!" Percy pushed forward, standing between Archie and the Aurors. "You know very that this is a breach of Archie's rights – under the terms of the search warrant, you have exactly what you were searching for, and by going any farther you will be surpassing the authority of your warrant!"

"He's right, Dawlish," Dad said, a stern frown on his face as he looked between Dawlish and his partner, in the kitchen, and the six Aurors in the hallway. "Has your promotion gone to your head, or have all of you simply lost your minds without James in charge? This is a clear case of over-searching, and it will be treated like one unless you leave, _now_."

"You have not been an Auror in many years, Lord Black," Dawlish replied, shaking his head. "You've forgotten that whether something is over-searching depends on _what we find_. Aurors – get to it!"

"This is illegal!" Percy spat, but there didn't seem to be any point as the team of Aurors spread out and began ransacking Grimmauld Place. "I'll have anything you find tossed, and you very well know it!"

It was one of the hardest afternoons of Archie's life. At first, with Hermione at one side, holding his arm, and Aldon flipping through a magical theory textbook on the other with an air of forced calm, Archie tried to count the afternoons that had been worse. There was the day that Mum died, that was worse. There was the afternoon of the final Triwizard Tournament. Mum's funeral had been pretty bad, but he didn't know if it was worse than this. The night that he had found out about the Marriage Law and the Quarantine at Hogwarts was bad, but not this bad. Finding out that Mum had died of a treatable illness, that had been worse.

It didn't help. Counting out the days that had been worse, a sick compilation of his bad days, it didn't make _this_ day, _this_ afternoon, any less bad. It didn't make him feel better, knowing there had been worse days.

He watched as they started bringing things out, tossing everything into a brown bag that clearly had an undetectable Extension Charm built in. They hit Chess' and John's rooms first – thank the gods Chess and John were out! Thank god that Chess had taken her laptop with her to recharge and do some work in the public library, and that John always carried his ACD with him. The Aurors brought out the thing that she called a _breadboard_, which she used to try to design electrical circuits, tossing it carelessly into the bag, as well as her LED lights, her boombox that she was currently toying with, her plastics and aerogels and other No-Maj materials, and Archie didn't know how he was going to tell her what had happened. He didn't understand her work, but for all he knew, they were throwing away _months_ of her research. He swallowed thickly.

Then they went into his room, and his heart crumpled as they started bringing down his things. They started with his books, bringing them down in stacks, throwing them in a willy-nilly jumble into the bag. _The Annotated Shakespeare_, that John had gotten him for his very first Christmas after he went to AIM, his copy of _Lonely Planet London_ that he used to stave off insanity over long summers, the collected writings of Martin Luther King Jr. that inspired him. _Dracula_,_ I, Robot_, _The Left Hand of Darkness_, _The Hobbit, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, The Man in the High Castle, To Kill A Mockingbird, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Dune, The Crucible, My Own Country, _the collection of No-Maj fairy tales that Hermione had gotten him against her own better judgement, all those and many more. Those were _his – _those were his books, and they didn't care.

"Yes, because _Muggle __books _are a _communication device_," Dad said, deeply scathing, as Archie struggled to breathe, as he started blinking furiously and taking deep, ragged breaths, trying to stop himself from crying. They were his _books_. Books that transported him to new worlds, to worlds that existed that he had never seen, past-worlds or fantasy-worlds that didn't exist and never would, future-worlds that might come later. Books that gave him characters he loved, from Othello to Samwise Gamgee, from Lucy Pevensie to Bob Arctor, from Sherlock Holmes to Jay Gatsby. Books that taught him to question, books that questioned the nature of humanity, books with heroes and villains that struggled over _what was right_. Books that were his light when everything felt dark, books that let him escape from his own life for a few hours, books that let him dream about making something _better – _they were taking them away, throwing them carelessly into that bottomless, brown, bag.

Dad tried to get in the way, to stop them, but he was firmly pushed aside, and he only just stopped himself from going for his wand. Archie wiped his eyes, trying to be discreet about it, but there were only so many ways to discreetly dab away tears. Hermione was rubbing him on the back, he realized, and a soft hiccoughing noise was coming from his chest as he started sniffling. Aldon's face was a polite mask of distaste, and he kept flipping pages in his book without reading them.

"We're just following orders, Lord Black," he heard an Auror say, not unkindly. "We look it over, and if everything checks out, you'll get it all back. We just need to look for any codes, things like that. You understand."

"No, I really don't, Auror Asiado," Dad snapped. "In _my _day, we didn't exceed our warrants' authority when conducting a search!"

"This is completely and utterly needless." Percy's voice was icy. "This is a serious breach of the Blacks' civil rights, and you can rest assured that they will be advised of their options with respect to a lawsuit."

The Auror shrugged at the two of them, a little helplessly, but kept on throwing Archie's books into the bag.

It wasn't just the books. Archie's CD player, in its hard case, was thrown into the bag, along with his headphones, his collection of CDs: his special mix of Disney songs from Chess, who had gone out of her way to record all of his favourites for him, his _Cats_, his _Phantom of the Opera_, his Johnny Cash, Madonna, The Cranberries. His copy of _Les Misérables_, the original 1986 recording from London, which had the very _best _rendition of _Empty Chairs and Empty Tables. _He could hear brittle, cracking noises inside the bag, and he knew that that was the noise of the delicate plastic cases for his CDs, being shattered by all the books they had thrown in before. His AIM sweaters went in too, along with a dozen knick-knacks, momentos, random No-Maj things that he had collected over the years. His canvas jacket, too small for him now, that he had used in first year when he played Anybodys. His packet of glow in the dark stars, which he always used to decorate his ceiling at AIM. The bear wearing a kilt from Edinburgh that he had never gotten around to giving to Hermione.

"It'll be all right, Archie," he could hear Hermione whispering, as he fumbled for his handkerchief. It was just _things_, he knew. It was just books and music and mementos going into that bag, and it was nothing that couldn't be replaced. And yet, it still hurt. It still hurt, because these _things_, these books and music and momentos, they all _meant_ something to him, they were all things that he loved and wanted to keep close to him. His hands were shaky as he unfolded his handkerchief, as he wiped his face, blew his nose. He tried to keep his sobs quiet, but those were his _books_, his _music_, that they were throwing it all away, like they were meaningless, like they were nothing! Hermione let go of his arm and turned him towards her, drawing him into a hug. He buried his head into her warm curls as she kept murmuring small comforts into his ear. "They can all be replaced. Francesca would love to go shopping for you, she and John would love running all over London looking for things for you."

"How much will she need to cover it?" Archie heard Dad ask, his voice somehow distant as he sobbed, muffled sounds of hurt, into Hermione's shoulder. "I don't know how much Muggle books or CDs cost."

"The books and CDs themselves, not that much, no more than two hundred pounds, I don't think," Hermione replied quietly, rubbing Archie's back. "It's the protective case on the CD player that's the issue. It's custom-made, one of Francesca's inventions, and there I don't think it's so much cost as it is production time and materials. They've taken her materials too – we'll need to wait for her and John to get back before we know how bad that is, but fortunately I think she was only experimenting on the boombox."

"Shut up." Aldon's voice was low, but sharp. "They haven't left yet. Fuck, why don't the lot of you have any _sense_?"

The room fell silent, with only the sound of more things being thrown into the bag, and Archie burrowed his head deeper into Hermione's shoulder. It was only _things_, only things, and it wasn't that bad. It wasn't that bad, so he needed to pull himself together.

It was just all so _needless_. They didn't have any other communication devices, and Archie had given up his mirror without a fight. From what Dad and Percy said, the Aurors had broken the law by ransacking his house, as they did, and they had _known it_ while they had done it. Most of the things they had taken couldn't even be argued to be a communication device! They just hadn't cared, or maybe, probably, it was an excuse for something else. He grabbed onto the grain of anger and held it, gripped it in his mind until it hurt, because anger was good – anger was necessary when dealing with someone like Auror Dawlish, anger was better than tears. What they had done was wrong, because they just didn't care to follow their own laws. The Auror that had been left with them, Asiado, ignored them all, feigning deafness.

By the time Auror Dawlish was back in the kitchen, Archie was calm again, though he knew his face puffy, swollen, and that his eyes were bloodshot. He was still sniffling, every now and then, but at least he wasn't in the middle of a full-blown breakdown. He knew that Dawlish could see it from the way he ran his cold eyes over Archie's face.

He snorted softly, a small huff of derision, then he looked up to Dad, whose expression had turned to stone. "Lord Black, we'll be on our way. Feel free to lodge a formal protest, not that it'll do you any good considering everything we found."

"Yes, _books _and _music_, _clothes_ and _souvenirs_," Percy snarled at him. Archie had almost forgotten that he was there, standing with his hands firm on the kitchen table, his face pale in mixed shock and fury. "You know you broke the law, and you know you exceeded your warrant's authority. I will have _everything _you confiscated today tossed for the illegal search and seizure. What was the point of today, Dawlish? Tell me, what _purpose_ did all of this serve?"

"Just bringing criminals to justice, counsellor." Dawlish turned away, motioning for his Aurors to follow him. The front door slammed after them, the snap loud in the silence.

Archie sniffed. They're only things, he reminded himself, as Aldon pulled out his wand again and pointed it at the magical theory text that he had been idly flipping through for the better part of two hours. "_Reparifarge_," he muttered, and the book turned into Archie's script, _Grease_, which Aldon slid across the table to him. "I… Transfigured it as a precaution, when I heard them coming. I recognized Dawlish's voice."

"Have a lot of experience hiding contraband items, Aldon?" Dad's voice was quiet, with a hint of a laugh.

"Censored magical theory books and journals, mainly, Transfigured as Quidditch memorabilia and a chess set. A little more complex as subterfuge – I had to fake an interest in Quidditch for it. My favourite team was supposed to be the Tornadoes, and of course that meant I had to actually follow the Tornadoes, and… it was complicated." Aldon looked away awkwardly, clearing his throat. Hermione snorted, covering up a small laugh.

Archie smiled weakly, trembling a little. "Deep down, you are a nerd, aren't you? Protecting textbooks."

"I have no idea what that means." Aldon frowned. "Should I be offended? I feel like I ought to be offended."

"They missed a few other things, too." Dad patted him on the back. "Your AIM Triwizard sweater and Triwizard team jacket were in the laundry, and I still have _Cosmos – _I had it in your mother's box of records, in the formal sitting room. The rest, we'll replace. Don't worry about it, Arch."

"We can get the items back, too_._" Percy shook his head, his mouth a grim line of determination. "The law is _clear _on search warrants. My apologies for being unable to prevent this, Archie. They did not have the authority to conduct the search they did, and they should not have done it – you can be sure that I'll be raising it with the court."

Archie nodded, but his mouth firmed. The Aurors weren't following the law – they hadn't given him the things he was entitled to for his first night in prison (though he hadn't minded that part at all, really), they used a search warrant to raid and ransack his house and take away so many of the things he loved, for no discernable reason. Why should _he_ respect the law, when they clearly didn't? Why should he play by the rules they set, when they could apparently break them whenever they wanted with no consequences whatsoever? Why _shouldn't_ he hold them to account with something truly _impartial_, something a little _unexpected_, something straight out of _legend_?

Archie felt a little reckless, off-balance, and a bit of risk sounded perfect to him, right now.

"Hey, Perce," he said, taking a deep breath. "Let's do it. Summon Justice, I mean. If anyone can prepare for a trial out of legend, it's you. I trust you to pull me out of the fire."

Percy was silent for a moment, thinking. And then he nodded, just once. "We'll go down in history for this, Archie. I just hope we can get back up again afterwards."

XXX

_AN: Look, it's Aldon! Why did you have to become such a creeper, Aldon? Also, this was the chapter where I reread it and thought, "oh, I accidentally wrote in a classic enemies-to-lovers trope, oops." So, uh, if anyone wants to write me some enemies-to-lovers fic of fic of fic and doesn't mind breaking Archie's poor heart, I'd love some for my birthday? Thanks go to meek_bookworm for toning down Aldon's creepiness so you don't have to rinse your brains as much as you might have had to, and extra special thanks go this time to SHL and JAP for your help on search warrants, search and seizure, and over-searching. _

_Next Chapter: I hear your voice in the wind / It follows me, it cuts right through the noise / As we spin on dance floors made of ice / So rest your hand in mine / Steady now, ignore the sound of breaking lines / The crack beneath our feet as time runs out (Politics of Love, by Rise Against)_


	3. Chapter 3

The morning of the trial, Aldon was standing at the entrance to Grimmauld Place, fiddling with the gold filigree buttons of his dark blue silk robes. His hair was neatly arranged and he had picked out his nicest black leather boots which were polished to a cool shine. His wand was in one pocket, and around his neck he wore a pendant, a simple golden circle embossed with the scales of Justice. It was the traditional symbol of a Truth-Speaker, or so he hoped. None of the memoirs or trial records had been specific, but it seemed like it would make sense, since a Truth-Speaker's main function was in the courts. If not, it would be now.

He had a ritual dagger at his waist, one of those now-rare instruments imbued with spells to amplify and help channel blood magic. He didn't think he really needed a ritual dagger – blood magic only needed _blood_, and in theory, any knife would do. But a ritual dagger, custom-made, with its gold-plated hilt, jeweled pommel and liquid runes running down the blade, looked far better than a kitchen knife, and Aldon wanted to look the part. He was a professional, he was there to summon Lady Justice Herself, and looking the part would add to the ceremony, to the importance of it all.

It would also make him look more like a fool if he failed, but he shoved that thought away. He wouldn't fail.

"All right, there?" John asked, joining him at the entranceway. He, too, had dressed well – better than Aldon had ever seen him, since John seemed to prefer _jeans_ and a _t-shirt_ most days. Occasionally there were _cargo pants_ or _sweatshirts_, but none of it was anything Aldon would ever consider wearing.

Today, he was in a high-collared black shirt, buttoned in silver, with black trousers and polished black boots, then a dark grey robe over top. The robe was cut in the American wizarding fashion, at the knees. A silver pendant hung from his neck, and Aldon recognized the traditional insignia of a Natural Legilimens. Even if Aldon couldn't see it, he knew that John had his ACD on one arm and his wand in a holster on the other.

"As well as can be expected," Aldon replied, his voice clipped.

John eyed him, a slight quirk in his eyebrow. "It's all right to admit you're nervous. You _are_ trying to do an insane ancient ritual today."

"It's a straightforward enough ritual," Aldon snapped, turning and pacing along the entranceway. "Spill blood on the design. Introduce myself and beg for her to hear the case. Done. How hard can it be?"

"As long as you haven't missed something." John nodded agreeably, then he turned to look up the stairs.

Aldon followed his gaze, seeing the Hermione and Francesca on the first landing, coming down. Both were in Muggle dress, wearing exactly what they would have worn in a Muggle court. For Hermione, that meant a neatly pressed white blouse and navy-blue skirt, tapered to her knees, a fitted jacket and cream-coloured flat shoes, while Chess was in a black dress, long-sleeved, with black tights and heels. Both of them had put their hair up, out of the way – Hermione in a chignon, held with a spelled Muggle clip, and Francesca in a simple bun.

It hadn't really been any of their decisions to put the girls in Muggle wear, not directly. At first, the plan had been for them to wear Muggle clothing underneath and add a wizarding overrobe, a mix of styles that would integrate both their Muggle backgrounds and their current magical status. The problem was that none of the tailors in Diagon Alley would serve them, or at least not without charging exorbitant prices. Their money, it seemed, was not worth as much as Aldon's, or Archie's.

Some, Aldon wouldn't even have tried – the owners of Twilfitt and Tattings were part of the SOW Party, declared Dark, proudly pureblood supremacist. They had simply turned up their noses and pointed the Lord Black, the two girls in tow, to the second-hand robe stores. But it wasn't just those ateliers – Neutral Madam Malkin had turned them away too, though she had at least been apologetic about it, and the smaller shops, those that even named a price, named one four or five times what the robes should have cost. Aldon suspected someone may have been pressuring them, given how unpopular Archie now was in the pureblood wizarding community.

The shock of the scandal had worn off to something new, a sort of unrest and anger that the Daily Prophet was actively stoking. Harry Potter had broken the law, and she had gotten away with it. She had flouted the rules that were there to protect purebloods, and had put all their children, the best and the brightest of the wizarding world, at risk. Then, her mother had attacked all of Wizarding Britain with her compulsion spell, and she and the Potters had gotten away, too. The lesser-blooded had gone too far this time, and lessons needed to be taught. And there Archie was, with his halfblood and Muggleborn friends, a co-conspirator to Harry Potter: a pureblood, but a traitor.

Why was it that purebloods were supposed to be the best and the brightest of the wizarding world, and, at the same time, delicate, gilded lilies that needed to be shielded at every opportunity? Aldon thought wryly, nodding at the girls as they joined him.

The robe situation had only turned into an opportunity. There were other, more interesting ways of making it obvious that the girls, even if Muggleborn, were magical, and Aldon had been fascinated to watch as they both wove complex Charms into their clothing. None of what they did was truly _new_ to him – much of it was just runic illusion-spells – but he had never thought of using _magic_ in his clothing to create such beautiful effects. Hermione's jacket and skirt were edged with gold spell-work, spiralling in delicate, moving curls on her lapels, while Francesca's dress was warm with something Aldon could only describe as firelight. If he looked at her straight-on, the dress would seem to be plain black, but if he turned his head to the side just slightly, it would come alive with the subtle glow of burning coals. It was a brilliant piece of magic.

Aldon realized he was staring, and he looked away.

"Looking good, Monster," John said, with an easy smile as he offered Francesca his arm. "Hermione. Where's Archie? And Sirius?"

"Fixing his hair and robes." Hermione rolled her eyes. "You know how Archie is. Apparently, it's genetic – Sirius is no better."

"There is nothing wrong with wanting to look good," Francesca said softly, something like reproach in her voice. "It's important to make a good first impression, especially for a day like today."

"She's right," Aldon added, smoothing his robes and taking a deep breath. He would be calm, he would be focused, and he would not fidget. He pulled out his pocketwatch, gold, checking the time. They would be Apparating, Side-Along, and Aldon had against his inclinations agreed to take both John and Francesca with him, since it wasn't very far. He was better at Apparition now, but he was worried about how much magic he would need to sustain the rite of summoning for a full day.

They had a bit of time. Percy had said he would meet them at court a half hour before the trial opened, because he needed every minute that he could get to prepare.

At least things at home were quiet. Aldon sighed, turning to study Grimmauld Place's blank walls, covered in gaudy green and grey stripes. Mother had been in France for the past two and a half weeks, handling some urgent matter that had come up with the Trust's French assets, and she wasn't expected back for another few weeks. But Father had heard something or other about Aldon's activities from the Lord Parkinson and had made a few careful inquiries over dinner.

"I hear that you are… consulting for the Black Heir, Aldon," he had said, his voice holding nothing but mild interest.

"The Black Heir is interesting," Aldon had replied, equally cool. "As are his friends. He's fortunate enough to call John Kowalski a friend, did you know? The son of the Head of Foreign Affairs at MACUSA."

"Hmm…" His father had looked up, considering. "Given the current sanctions, business in America has been impossible for nearly two decades. How is the younger Kowalski?"

"Savvy." Aldon half-smiled. "A Natural Legilimens. His sister, too, has just joined the ICW. He will be a good future connection for the Trust, and supporting Arcturus Rigel Black during this troubled time will, I think, pay excellent dividends down the line."

Father nodded, satisfied. In his family, everything came down to business, to money. Even their political stances had been more a matter of business sense than dedicated belief; had a political shift meant it was more advantageous for them to be supporters of blood equality, Aldon suspected his family would have turned with the tide.

In some ways, that made things easier for him. Finding out that he was a halfblood was hard enough, with the fear of losing his status, that he was glad he hadn't had to deal with any element of self-loathing or disgust. With his parents, it had been business, business and more business – he could barely remember any incident of his parents disparaging halfbloods or Muggleborns. And, whatever was said, the Rosier Investment Trust still had at least one division, well hidden as it might be, predominantly made up of internationally trained halfbloods and Muggleborns.

He had also, as Percy had predicted, gotten a summons to court within the last week. He smirked slightly, feeling the official-looking piece of parchment in his pocket – he would be at court today, certainly, but he wouldn't be testifying. As the Truth-Speaker in charge of the summoning ritual, he would become a part of the court itself, and Percy would use that as an excuse to kick him off the witness list. As if that even mattered, once Justice was summoned.

Archie thundered downstairs, his dark curls neat, and Aldon stared.

"What on _earth_ are you wearing?" He asked, jaw dropping slightly as he eyed Archie's choice of dress. It was a black version, with trousers and a tie, of what Hermione was wearing – a jacket, a clean, pressed, white shirt, black trousers, shined black shoes. He was wearing a light blue tie, tied in a complex knot at his throat.

There was no overrobe, and magic did not flash on his clothing.

"A suit," Archie replied with a wide grin. "A No-Maj suit. I look great, don't I? I figured, if Hermione and Chess don't have robes, well, why shouldn't I stand in solidarity? I'm not _ashamed _of what I did, and this seemed like a great way of showing it!"

"Percy is going to go spare." Aldon shook his head, sighing. He didn't dislike Muggle clothes per se – there did seem to be a wider range of styles for Muggles than for witches and wizards – but there was a time and a place for it. _Trial_ wasn't one of them. At the same time, it was too late now to persuade Archie otherwise, and Aldon had an arcane ritual to perform in an hour. He didn't have the energy to spare to try to convince Archie to change into dress robes. Not when, apparently, it looked like the Lord Black had already tried and failed, and he didn't think anyone would support him in the effort.

Lord Black was looking grim, formal in plain black dress robes. He was the wizarding counterpart to Archie's Muggle dress, and he looked anxious, on edge. He was not wholly supportive of Archie's decision to invoke an ancient ritual rather than plead guilty or, at least, play by the rules they knew, but mysteriously he had not fought as hard as Aldon had expected him to. Perhaps the Ministry raid had showed him that they simply weren't going to follow the law, not when it came to Archie, not when it came to this scandal. Not until Archie did what he was never going to do and fall into the pureblood line.

"Nah," Archie replied, waving a hand. "Percy is too busy worrying about how he's going to save my life, soul, or magic. If that really is all that Justice throws out as sentences."

"You are sounding far too flippant about this," Hermione said, grimacing.

"Hey." Archie grabbed her hand and looked down at her, his smile settling into something a little more serious, more grounded. "If I don't believe in our case, then who will? The blood discrimination laws, including blood identity theft, they _are_ unjust – Justice will see that. This is the chance for which we've been fighting for years."

Hermione looked at him for a long moment, then she sighed, shaking her head. "We've prepared as well as we can, given the circumstances. I just… I worry about you. I'm convinced there's more to this than Aldon thinks there is, I'm convinced there's more risk, especially for you."

"Well." Archie tilted his head to one side, drawing the word out a bit. "Harry always took the risks for me, and you've taken risks for me before too, for things that I wanted. I think it's high time for me to take a bit of risk for you."

"We should go," Aldon interrupted, stalking out the door to the Apparition point just outside the wards, before Archie and Hermione could be any more nauseating. It was almost like Ed and Alice all over again, but Ed and Alice had had a bit more subtlety – they hadn't been physically affectionate where Aldon could see them, though the sexual tension between the two of them sometimes could be cut with a knife. Archie and Hermione were _sweet_ – spelled bouquets of orchids every day, hand-holding, not infrequent kisses. Ugh.

He felt, rather than saw, John and Francesca follow him down the front steps and through the front garden to the Apparition point. He offered them his arms without comment, and when they each grabbed on, he turned on the spot and whisked them away, to the Wizarding Courts of Law.

The Wizarding Courts had stood there since the Romans, though Aldon was convinced that the Celts before them had summoned Justice through their own rituals. The ancient edifice showed its origins: four pillars towered front of the doors, the insignia of Lady Justice on each one. Aldon paused for a minute, studying the images – Justice the blind, cloth over her eyes, sword in one hand and raised scales on the other. The building beyond was white marble, lined with gold, protected from the elements by strong weather-proofing charms. The steps were flat, broad, made more for aesthetics than utility. He swallowed.

Walking inside, Aldon could see a high ceiling, two stories high, held up by more pillars, marble staircases sweeping up two sides of a grand atrium. He paused by the security Auror, showing him his summons and letting him register his wand, and he was waved through without further comment. Another good thing about a ritual dagger as opposed to a kitchen knife – it was considered too _decorative_ to be a weapon.

He waited in the atrium for a few minutes, studying the space, picking up more symbols here and there representing Justice. The atrium was, of course, dominated by another sculpture of blind Justice in her robes, carrying the sword and scales, but smaller insignia also decorated the space; miniature carved scales lined the bannisters on the staircases, and there was another motif of the sword and scales around the ceiling.

Archie's trial would be held would be in courtroom one, on the ground floor, logically. The trial of the Black Heir was the most newsworthy one this summer, and Aldon could already see reporters and other observers waiting by the doors to the courtroom. He smirked a little – he would give them something to report on.

What was taking John and Francesca so long? Aldon turned, and the two of them were still with the security Auror.

"As I've said, she doesn't use a wand," John was saying, his voice sharp, one arm around his betrothed. Francesca's eyes were on the ground. "I don't know how much clearer I can make it. She can't register a wand with you because she's a runic paper-caster – she uses paper spells."

"I'm not sure I can let you in without registering a wand," the Auror replied uncertainly, and by the way he kept staring at Francesca and turning away, Aldon guessed that he was fascinated by magic she had woven in her dress. "The policies clearly state that I need to register all wands before allowing entry."

Aldon stepped up. "In that case, you've done so," he said, his voice curt. "You've registered all wands, because she doesn't have one. And the two of them are with me, so do let them in."

"And you're…" The security Auror struggled to place him.

"Aldon Rosier, the Heir to House Rosier," Aldon snapped. He wasn't used to being unrecognized, though there was no reason the Auror should have recognized him. "Did you even look at my summons?"

He shoved the parchment in the Auror's face once more, watching with a sort of vindictive pleasure as the Auror read it and his eyes widened.

"Mr. Rosier," he said, immediately apologetic, handing back the summons and waving John and Francesca through. "I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Please, carry on!"

Aldon turned away, leading John and Francesca to a relatively secluded part of the wall. He glanced at Francesca, who was very pointedly not looking at him, and then at John. He was curious – no wand, and as far as he knew, only the National Magic School of China produced paper-casters. She was certainly of Chinese descent, but with her name, her American accent, and the mere fact she was friends with Archie, John and Hermione, he had assumed that she went to AIM.

No, he corrected himself. She had to be an AIM student, because she had also been John's strategist for the Triwizard Tournament, and John had been in the games wearing her ACD. He supposed she could have transferred schools after her third year, though he had never heard of such a thing. No one transferred into or out of Hogwarts, but maybe other schools were different. He discreetly glanced over at Francesca again, the glowing embers of her dress lighting up his peripheral vision.

"Stop wondering," John said sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's none of your business."

Aldon looked at John raising an eyebrow. His Occlumency shields were up – he checked them over, just to be sure, but they hadn't wavered.

"Yeah, your shields just aren't that great." John leaned back against the wall. "You sound like a badly tuned radio to me, or maybe a TV that's been left on in the next room or something. I get bits and pieces, here and there. You'll want to work on that."

Aldon glared at him. It had been a month. "And you didn't see fit to tell me this because...?"

"You didn't ask?" John half-lied. John lied a lot, but usually about completely unimportant things. Aldon tilted his head to one side, a discreet motion to tell the boy to stop lying to him. "Fine, fine. You didn't ask and it didn't bother me. And I usually try to pretend like I don't hear things from other people for their comfort, so I didn't know how to tell you."

Aldon's gift wavered a little, but not enough that he was worried. There was some minor detail omitted, he guessed, but probably John just didn't want to admit that he had liked having a back door to Aldon's thoughts. In the same position, Aldon would have been much worse about it, he was sure. He scowled – at least he could use John's embarrassment to wring a favour out of him. "For that, tonight, you're going to start helping me fix my shields."

John flashed a smile. "Sure thing, man. Heads up, it's Archie and Sirius."

Aldon looked over, and indeed Archie was walking into the Atrium, hand in hand with his girlfriend, the Lord Black backing them both. Cameras flashed, and Archie looked around with a confident smile.

"Mr. Black!" one of the reporters shoved his way in front of the crowd. "What have you to say, walking into your trial?"

Archie stopped for a moment, looking the reporter in the eye and appearing to think about it for a minute or so. "Only that justice will be done," he said finally, with a friendly smile, and Aldon withheld a snort. "And I will not fight the determination of justice. No further comments, thank you."

"Time to go in," John said, pushing himself off from the wall. "Let's see you use that summons to get us good seats, now."

Aldon nodded, and the three of the made their way into courtroom one, already beginning to fill with spectators. Aldon did, in fact, use his summons to get them good seats, only a couple rows behind the counsel table where Archie and Percy would sit, behind the row where Sirius and Hermione would sit. Lupin was already there, looking tired but wearing crisp brown dress robes.

"How are you?" he asked, voice warm yet worried. He had been informed of the plan by Sirius and Archie, though Aldon knew little of what he thought about it.

"As well as can be expected," Aldon replied cordially. Lupin nodded in reply, then turned to chat quietly with John and Francesca. Both of them were more familiar with Lupin than Aldon was; Aldon never stayed for dinner and he had spent most of his time at Grimmauld Place researching in a library by himself. He had never had classes with Lupin, either, having dropped Defense after that horrendous year with Gilderoy Lockhart. All the beauty in the world had not made up for Lockhart's sheer stupidity. If it were not for Ed, Aldon would have probably failed Defense.

Percy was already at the counsel table, chalk-white with a sheaf of notes in front of him. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he seemed like he was holding it together – his barristers robes were well-pressed, his grey wig was carefully pinned on his red hair, and his tabs lay pristine at his neck. He glanced at Aldon, and Aldon nodded in reply. He was ready – as ready as he would ever be.

The susurrus of whispers sweeping the room, many of them harsh or shocked, told Aldon more than anything else that Archie had walked into the courtroom. He looked around, spotting people he knew, here and there. Lord and Lady Malfoy were there, stern-faced, Draco beside them. Pansy sat on Draco's other side, hands folded primly on her lap, and her parents were on her other side. Lady Parkinson looked worried, while Lord Parkinson was wearing a frown of distaste. Scanning the room, he also spotted others of Harry's friends: Millicent Bulstrode, politely poker-faced, and Theodore Nott, looking excited. Adrian Pucey was there, looking curious. Headmaster Dumbledore, with Professor McGonagall beside him, was sitting in the back. The Minister for Magic was there, though Lord Riddle was a glaring absence. Names, faces, titles ran through Aldon's mind as he identified people, some as acquaintances, others by reputation only. The audience was noble, non-noble, Light, Dark, Neutral.

There were also many people he didn't know. Archie stopped at one row, pausing to talk to the people sitting there. Many of them were wearing robes, some of them cut short in the American style, others long in the British style, the girls in Muggle formal dresses. Some of them, too, had subtle magical effects on their clothing – these must be some of Archie's other friends or acquaintances from America. There were two blonds, speaking with strong Irish accents, a black-haired boy with a thick Scottish burr, a brown-skinned man with dark hair and eyes in American-style robes, a broad-shouldered man with muddy brown hair and clear hazel eyes in British-style robes.

Archie made his way to the front of the room amid a storm of comments about his clothing, his attitude, his expression, and there was more than one hushed comment about Hermione, who had her hand in his. Archie's face was relaxed, open – he smiled at the people he knew, nodding to Lupin, to John and Francesca, and he certainly didn't look like someone ready to stand trial, especially not someone ready to put himself on the line for his beliefs. Once he got closer, though, Aldon could see that the hand he had in Hermione's was white, shaking, and he knew Archie had to be pulling some sort of emotional strength from his girlfriend.

Hermione was stone-faced, worried, as she slipped into the row in front of Aldon, sitting between Lupin and the Lord Black, with John at her back. She would be guarded from all sides, Aldon realized, though he didn't think it would be necessary. Aside from the fact that Hermione had fast reflexes and her hexes _hurt_, the old trial records suggested that Justice, once summoned, ran her courtroom with an iron fist.

Aldon turned to the front, letting out a breath as he shut his eyes. He had gone over this a dozen times in his head. He was ready, his ritual dagger was primed. He knew what he needed say, and then Justice would appear and take over the proceedings. Even Hermione had agreed, however begrudgingly, that the ritual would _work_; where she got tripped up was in the errata, the risks and the consequences of summoning Justice, not the mere fact that he could be done. Aldon felt a vicious sort of satisfaction at that, because if there was any _hint_ that it could not be done, he knew that Hermione would have seized on it and used it to savage him.

There was a flurry of activity at the front of the room, and one of the two clerks at the front stood. "All rise," she said, her voice bored, as all the witches and wizards in the room rose to their feet. Once up, she looked down at a sheet of paper and read it off, tripping through her words so quickly that Aldon couldn't be sure if he had heard correctly. "Hear ye, hear ye, all those having business in Justice's court, come forward and be heard. You may be seated."

There was a second wave of witches and wizards sitting down, and the back door to the court opened. A small, curvy witch with reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes strode in, and Aldon recognized Lady Amelia Bones, one of the Law Ladies and a judge of the Wizarding Court of Law. She was followed by five members of the Wizengamot, who must be Archie's selected jury – as a noble, he could only be tried by a jury of his peers. Or, Aldon half-smiled a little to himself, by Justice Herself.

"Madam Umbridge," Lady Bones said, taking a seat on the second-highest dais in the courtroom, looking around the courtroom and nodding at each of the prosecution table and the defence table in turn. She reached into her robes and pulled out a small pair of spectacles, setting them on top of her nose. "Mr. Weasley. Mr. Black. Let us not beat around the bush – we all know what we're here for today. Mr. Black, please rise. You stand accused of the crimes of aiding and abetting in the commission of blood identity theft, and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft. How do you plead?"

Archie had stood, Percy beside him motioning him to do so, and Aldon took a deep breath. It was almost time. "Not guilty, your honour."

Lady Bones nodded, unsurprised – they would not have convened a panel of the Wizengamot if they had thought Archie would plead any other way. "Very well. Let's get started, then."

"Lady Bones, there is a preliminary matter that we need to address." Percy stood up, and his voice was iron. Aldon sat up, shifting to hold himself a little straighter. This was the first hurdle – no one had done this in centuries – and if they dismissed Percy as insane here, there was no back up plan. Percy's voice was sure as he continued. "My client will be invoking his right to a trial before Justice Herself."

There was a moment of silence. Lady Bones frowned at him for a second – Aldon suspected that she thought she had misheard, or that she was waiting for Percy to tell her that he was joking, but Percy was silent, stubborn. Behind him, Aldon could hear whispers starting. He stiffened, checked his ritual dagger at his side, and shifted slowly to be ready to rise.

"Excuse me, counsellor?" Lady Bones said, leaning forward and tilting her head to eye Percy over her spectacles. "Your client would like to…. invoke Justice Herself to preside over his trial."

"That is correct, your honour. As a noble, Mr. Black has the right to a trial before Justice Herself when charged with an offence – this was laid out clearly in the Charter of Noble Rights of 1071, reaffirmed in the years 1241, 1357 and 1449." Percy kept his voice firm, though his posture was stiff, and Aldon could hear muffled laughter running through the courtroom. On the prosecution side, Madam Umbridge, a squat woman vaguely reminiscent of a toad, didn't even hide the expression of shocked glee on her face, though the barrister beside her, a younger woman Aldon vaguely recognized from school, was poker-faced. "These noble rights have not been rescinded or repealed at any point, and it is described in each of those reaffirmations as a _fundamental_ noble right that _cannot_ be rescinded or repealed."

Lady Bones cleared her throat, evidently considering the best way to proceed. She ignored the laughter in the courtroom. "You are quite correct on the law, Mr. Weasley," she said finally, "but the issue is not one of Mr. Black's noble rights. The issue is that we have lost the ability to invoke Justice Herself, if ever such a thing were possible. What you are requesting is simply not possible."

"In the normal course," Percy barrelled on, but the quickening of his voice told Aldon all he needed to know – Percy had his opportunity, and he was going to take it. Aldon slid down the row, thankfully only needing to squeeze past a couple people, before he stopped, waiting. "The Court would now adjourn to name a Truth-Speaker, one of Justice's Chosen with the ability to summon her for the rite of invocation. However, given that it has been many centuries since the last summoning, the defense has taken on the responsibility of doing so. If I may call on Mr. Aldon Rosier to step forward?"

"The prosecution objects." Umbridge stood up. "Lady Bones, this nonsense has gone on for long enough. Mr. Weasley, perhaps showing his inexperience, is requesting a fantasy. Let us get on with the trial."

"It is Mr. Black's _right_, your honour, to demand a trial before Justice Herself." Percy repeated, implacable. "I will now be calling on Aldon Rosier, Truth-Speaker, for the rite of invocation."

"This is _highly_ improper!" Umbridge said, but Lady Bones held up a hand.

"Madam Umbridge, it would appear for the moment that the easiest way forward is simply to allow Mr. Weasley to proceed," she suggested, though Aldon thought he could see the smallest hint of curiosity in her hazel eyes. "Once Mr. Weasley and Mr. Black see that the request is impossible, we can begin with the trial instead of wasting time arguing over preliminary motions. I assume, Mr. Weasley, that you do not expect this _rite_ to take very long."

"Not at all, Lady Bones," Percy said, and Aldon felt a sharp bite of satisfaction as he stood up and approached the front. He bowed, perfectly thirty degrees, before crossing the bar that separated the barristers, the court officials, from the observers. Lady Bones nodded at him, and, after a second of hesitation, Aldon nodded back. The memoirs had never said to be _impolite_.

The whole room was watching him now, many of his former friends and acquaintances in the audience. Aldon tried not to let it bother him. He had done his research, he had made his choices, and what would happen now, would happen. He approached the heavy, iron plaque set on the second-to-highest dais, unbuttoning his right sleeve and shaking his arm out, baring a stretch of skin marred only with a narrow scar. He would probably have another after this, he realized regretfully. Prices to be paid.

He drew his ritual dagger from his waist and, in a quick, deliberate movement, cut one jagged line beside his last scar, holding it away from him to drip onto the design. It sizzled, dried, disappeared faster than it ought, and Aldon had a single, joyful, victorious moment of knowing it had worked.

Then his ears roared, and there was _something, _or maybe _someone_, on the top dais which had been called, which was waiting, which wanted him. He felt, weightier than the thousand stares behind him, a sort of _curious attention_ that was infinitely more terrifying. A ghost-wind whipped up – he didn't know whether it was real or only in his head, but his robes were flapping, fluttering, the iron design on which he stood was _burning_, bright gold, and in his peripheral vision, ancient runes circling the courtroom had come alive. They were lit, yellow, spinning, and in a moment of surprised clarity, Aldon recognized symbols of binding.

_Oh, shit_, he had the wherewithal to think, before his mind was blasted, not with words, but with a communication beyond words. It wasn't English – or maybe it was English, but a form of English so old he didn't understand it, or maybe it was even Norman French, he didn't know. He only understood the meaning.

_Who are you?_ She demanded, and Aldon could _just_ see her, wisps of light and dust shimmering in the form of a woman, dressed in the Roman-style draping robes that were so common in her images, with clear eyes, a patrician nose, standing on the top dais. She glanced over the courtroom, then turned back to look right at him. _Introduce yourself to me, Truth-Speaker._

He knew the words.

"My name is Aldon Étienne Rosier," he said, unsure whether anyone in the room could hear him, see him, through the whipping, whirling, ghost-winds trapping his body. "I am one of your Chosen. On the demand of the accused, I implore you, Lady, to hear this trial for aiding and abetting and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft."

All went black.

XXX

Archie waited, breath bated, while his older quasi-friend, sort-of-acquaintance, definite conspirator-in-arms shook like leaf, his robes floating around him in an unseen wind. It wasn't that he didn't believe in Aldon – he did, or he thought he did. He just didn't know Aldon very well, not compared to Hermione, not compared to John or even Chess.

It was a long moment, maybe a minute, and Aldon sighed, then he crossed the top of the dais, examining the room carefully as if it were entirely new to him. Either he was a _really_ good actor, Archie thought, chills running down his spine, or Aldon was… not Aldon.

"What is the meaning of this?" Umbridge snapped, rising to her feet, even if she was pale. The junior lawyer beside her was shaking like a leaf, as were the court clerks, and even Percy and Lady Bones didn't look so steady. His peers, various lords and ladies of the Wizengamot, or high-ranking members of their Houses, were whispering quietly to each other. "Lady Bones, I request that this cease at once. It appears to be completely irrelevant and is detracting from the administration of Justice!"

Aldon stopped in his examination of the room, the court clerks, the Wizengamot elders. He turned his head to Madam Umbridge, tilting it carefully, and the alien sort of intelligence on his face was, Archie thought, _not _something his new friend could fake. "I never thought I would see the day," he said, abnormally quiet, and even his voice was different. It was warmer in timbre, slower, more thoughtful, rolling liquid instead of sharp waves, and the way that he formed his words were all wrong. It wasn't his usual accent – it didn't sound like a British accent at all, not one as Archie would recognize it. There was the hint of something else behind it, something like French and yet not. He didn't know. He also sounded like he was trying out new words, a new language, considering how they tasted, and finding that they suited him very much.

"I never thought I would see the day when I, Justice Incarnate, was accused of _detracting_ from the administration of Justice," he – no, Justice – said idly, stalking over to the plain, wooden chair standing at the centre of the dais. "I find that I am quite insulted by the suggestion." She snapped her fingers, and there was a sound like a gunshot through the room, and Umbridge collapsed with a sharp cry, a scream of guttural pain.

That was not a spell. Archie gulped, and the room, with the exception of Umbridge's ragged panting and whimpering, fell dead silent. One look over at Umbridge, lying on the ground, told Archie that both of the woman's legs were broken. They were simple, clean breaks, easy enough to heal, and Archie had to resist his Healer's urge to walk over and Heal her. This was not the time, nor the place, he reminded himself. They had bigger worries.

"Her cries annoy me," Justice's nose wrinkled in distaste, an expression common enough on Aldon's face but somehow still new when she was occupying his body. The whimpering noise cut off – looking over, Archie saw that the junior prosecution lawyer, pale-faced and not knowing what else to do, had simply Stunned her superior. "I see that, since my last summoning, the prosecution has forgotten its manners. Has the defense?"

She turned to look at Percy, who was now kneeling on the ground. "It has been many centuries, longer than our lifetimes, since you were last called," Archie's lawyer started carefully. "Much of your etiquette and procedure has been forgotten. I ask for your mercy in any missteps that we may take."

"My mercy?" She seemed amused at the very thought, leaning back in her chair. "I am not my sister, counsellor. And why is it that you have summoned me, and not my sister Mercy?"

"We have not the knowledge," Percy said, after a beat. "We did not know that was usual practice."

"I see." She tilted her head to one side, looking around the courtroom again in thought, crossing one leg over the other. "It is often said that there can be no Justice without Mercy, but I tend to disagree, as I always have. The facts remain the facts. Am I correct in stating that you have not one of _her_ Chosen available for a summoning?"

"Not to our knowledge." Percy swallowed, visibly sweating a little. This had not been among the questions they had foreseen. "It has been… five hundred very long years."

"Five hundred years in this part of the world." Justice hummed a little, looking around the courtroom again. "I can hardly tell, based on your clothing, except for the witches in the middle with the flashing and glowing dresses. Cease with the spells – they're distracting."

Archie didn't need to look behind him to know that Chess and Hermione were tugging out the little paper charms for their illusion work and cancelling them, or that Saoirse, into whose clothing the spell was actually worked, was hastily constructing a secondary runic illusion to hide her glitter-spell.

"My Chosen stated that I am to hear a trial for _aiding and abetting in the commission of blood identity theft, _and _conspiracy to commit blood identity theft._" She paused, thinking for a moment – or maybe she was ransacking Aldon's mind for knowledge. Archie had no idea how possession worked, other than what John had told him and Harry's garbled explanation after her second year. He didn't know whether Justice would have access to Aldon's knowledge, his thoughts and feelings, or what would happen to him while possessed. Aldon hadn't mentioned possession would be part of the rite. "He believes it to be extremely important, of _national _importance, but I am unfamiliar with this offence. Please explain."

Lady Bones cleared her throat. "Madam Justice," she croaked, looking for space to kneel but not finding any, then flushing as she realized that she had addressed the incarnation by name. She curtsied awkwardly. "My apologies. I am not – I would be pleased to – I'm very sorry, but as Mr. Weasley says, I do not know the procedure where you will be hearing a case. Should I send away the jury panel? Should I leave? Should I remain, that I might be of assistance to you? Surely the laws have changed—"

"Laws always change." Justice waved one hand diffidently, carelessly, dismissively. "What is just does not. By all means, dismiss your jury, or they may remain as observers, I do not care. You, however, may stay and assist me as my _amicus curiae_. Explain to me your offence of blood identity theft; I am well familiar with both aiding and abetting and conspiracy."

Lady Bones, who Archie thought was handling the shock remarkably well, nodded. She motioned with one hand, behind her back, for one of the two clerks in front of her to go to the jury; the clerk, pale-faced but resolute, rose. She headed over first to Umbridge, cast a levitation spell on her, then motioned for the Wizengamot members to follow her out of the courtroom. A few of the Wizengamot members were muttering amongst themselves, but Archie was too far away to hear anything they said. How would summoning Justice play in his overall plans of raising awareness? On one hand – it was _Justice Incarnate_ handling his trial, so how could anyone say it was unfair? On the other, it was unorthodox, and the mere fact that it was unorthodox meant that people would be muttering.

Then again, those people would have muttered no matter what Archie did, so he counted it a fair loss.

"Blood identity theft is an offence in which a halfblood or Muggleborn witch or wizard holds themselves out to be a pureblood, thereby receiving some direct benefit as a result," Lady Bones explained quickly. "The level of _mens rea_ needed is low, and the _actus_ is the receipt of the direct benefit; a halfblood or Muggleborn does not need to directly present themselves as a pureblood, merely receive the benefit without correcting the assumption. It is not necessary to impersonate any specific pureblood."

"It is a form of fraud, then," Justice mused, snapping her fingers again. Aldon's dress robes turned white, flowing more like a dress than anything else, the clothes matching that of the carved sculpture which that Archie had seen in the atrium. It was sleeveless, fastened by golden brooches on the shoulders, with golden armbands on the upper arms, and Archie winced a little internally for Aldon. From what he had seen, Aldon was _far_ too uptight and conservative to wear anything of the sort. "But I will also need your terms defined. What is a halfblood? What is a Muggleborn?"

Lady Bones coughed. "Er, a pureblood as it is currently defined in law is a person who can provide proof that they have four magic-using grandparents. A Muggleborn is a person who is fully descended from Muggles, or non-magic-users, with no parent or grandparent who can use magic. Halfbloods are defined by exclusion; anyone who is not a pureblood and not a Muggleborn is a halfblood."

"I see." Justice's face was impassive. "And in _this_ society, being a pureblood has benefits above and beyond being a Muggleborn or a halfblood."

"That is correct, Your…" Lady Bones paused, uncertain what to call her. "Honour."

"In times and in courts past, I have not had a title." Justice waved her hand, uncaring, Aldon's orange eyes beady as she studied the courtroom once more. "_Your Honour _or Madam Justice will be fine. Is it equally an offence for a pureblood to pretend to be a Muggleborn or a halfblood? Are there degrees to the offence – are some instances of the offence considered worse than others?"

"It is not an offence for a pureblood to pretend to be lesser-blooded." Lady Bones cleared her throat, clearly a little uncomfortable. The Bones were Neutral and intensely private about their political leanings, Dad had told Archie once, and though they were non-noble they were extremely prominent in the legal profession. About a third of the Bones, or those related to the Bones, including the Goldsteins and the Boots, ascended to the ranks of the Law Lords and Law Ladies. The Law Lords and Law Ladies were nominally noble, but they had no voice in the Wizengamot and their nobility was not heritable. "There are different degrees to the offence, but only for Muggleborns. Pretending to be a pureblood is considered a first-degree offence, whereas pretending to be a halfblood is a second-degree offence. It is not an offence for a halfblood to pretend to be Muggleborn."

"What are the sentences for this offence?" Justice leaned forwards in interest. "If you have summoned me, then they must be great indeed."

Lady Bones coughed again, and Percy, beside him, stiffened. "For a Muggleborn or halfblood, the sentence for blood identity theft is at minimum, a ten-year term of imprisonment in Azkaban and scales upwards to the Dementor's Kiss." She hesitated.

"Continue," Justice ordered, wrinkling her nose. "Do not hide things from me. You cannot in any case – my Truth-Speaker's powers, when I am not possessing him, are nothing compared to _mine_. I have other means of making people talk."

"The accused, Arcturus Rigel Black, is a pureblood. He has been charged with _aiding and abetting_ and _consipiracy_ in connection to blood identity theft. The typical sentence for this offence a fine, with the historical upper limit of 1500 galleons – approximately the equivalent of a year's income for many families." Archie couldn't see Lady Bones' face, but her voice was clear and carrying.

Justice straightened in the chair that she had been lounging in, somewhat indolently, focusing on Lady Bones below her, then turning to the defense table where Percy was still kneeling and Archie was sitting, frozen, in his seat. "You have invoked your right to trial by Justice Incarnate for an offence on which your life does not rest?"

She was looking at him, not at Percy – right at him. She wanted an answer from him directly, not from his lawyer. Archie swallowed, then he stood. "I have, Your Honour," he said, using all his actor's training to avoid squeaking. He could not squeak – he had to be a _model_ here, he had to be strong for Hermione, for Toby and Saiorse and Sean, for Derrick and Isran, all of whom had come to his first day of trial to support him. He could not disappoint them. "Please, hear my case. It's the only way I'll have a fair trial, given … everything."

"Do not lie to me." Justice tilted her head to one side, considering. "Do not _half-lie_ to me, do not lie by omitting key factual details to me. This is your first warning, Arcturus Rigel Black."

Archie looked down. "It's also the only realistic way I have of challenging the blood discrimination laws, Your Honour."

Justice studied him, the expression on her face not completely unfamiliar since Archie had seen that look of surprised consideration on Aldon's face more than once, but still somehow different. He thought it was something about how Aldon normally held himself – Aldon was always tense, he was always wound up, he was always primed for a fight even if his words were flippant. Justice, in his body, lounged. She was fully confident, fearless, she had no need to hold extra tension in her body as he did. "I see," she drawled. "You are aware that, by requesting a trial in front of me, you are committing to the sentences that I hand down? I deal only in life, soul, and magic – I do not deal with something so mundane as monetary fines."

Dad hissed behind him, swearing, no doubt trying to think of ways to end this ritual, go back to the rulebook that they knew and understood, as he had been trying to do for weeks. Archie ignored him – the Ministry probably had something more than a fine in mind for him anyway. They had broken enough other laws when it came to him – what was one more?

Why _not_ take this risk? Archie had no guarantee that he was safe, not after the search warrant, maybe not even before. And, just as he told Hermione, if he didn't believe in his case, then no one would. He had to be willing to put himself on the line for it, and then trust in Percy and in Justice Herself to see the right result.

"I understand, Your Honour," Archie replied firmly. "The blood discrimination laws, including blood identity theft, are unjust and should be struck. I will take the risk."

"Brave words," Justice commented, leaning back in her chair. She studied him for a moment. "Very well. Let us proceed with the opening statements. Defense counsel, you look ridiculous, sit down at your table. Prosecution?"

Archie sat back down in his seat, Percy none too steady as he sat down beside him. Across the room, the junior lawyer looked around, hesitant, then rose, visibly trembling. "Your Honour, Madam Justice," she stuttered, her hands gripping the table in front of her. "My name is Clearwater, first initial P. I, er – I must request an adjournment. Madam Umbridge was, er, lead counsel on this matter, and I – um, I am not—"

"Denied," Justice ruled, blunt. "You are still counsel for the prosecution, and the expectation is that the prosecution is ready to proceed on the day of trial. If the prosecution puts forward two counsel, then both should be ready to proceed. You did review the case?"

"I – I did, Your Honour." Clearwater's eyes fell to her table, and she reached shakily for the pitcher of water on her desk, pouring herself a cup. The water sloshed over the rim, splashing a little onto her robes, onto the table.

"That's not all you did." Justice's eyes were sharp.

"I – I prepared all the materials, Your Honour," Clearwater replied, taking a sip of her water. "But a case of this magnitude – if I, a junior prosecutor, were to speak to it – the public perception of the administration of justice—"

Justice glared at her, the expression terrifying, and Clearwater froze, her words dying on her lips. "I am _Justice Incarnate_," she said, and her voice was clipped. "If you bring into question my ability to administer justice _one more time,_ I shall do worse than break your legs. Begin your openings."

"Y-Yes." Clearwater cleared her throat, picking up a scroll of parchment and making her way to the centre podium. She took a deep gulp of her glass of water, followed with several deep breaths. But when she started, she didn't stutter. "Your Honour, we are here today to hear the trial of Arcturus Rigel Black, who is accused of aiding and abetting and conspiracy in the commission of blood identity theft, specifically by allowing a family friend and halfblood, Harriett Euphemia Potter, to take his name and identity in order to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Under his name, Harriett Potter received a Hogwarts education, to the point where she began apprenticing under Hogwarts' Potions Master, Severus Snape. In the course of this trial, you will hear that Black, in return, took Potter's place at the American Institute of Magic, thereby ensuring that none, not even their parents, could uncover the deception. Over four years, Black failed to correct the misapprehension, and the ruse continued. Indeed, the ruse would have continued indefinitely, were it not for the events of the Triwizard Tournament, during which Harriett Potter was unmasked, identified, and named.

"You will hear that, shortly after she was unmasked, Black admitted all the essential elements of the offence in the course of a newspaper interview, which will be submitted as an exhibit. You will hear how, in the course of that interview, Black and Potter conspired to trade places, to allow each of them to attend the school that they wanted to attend." Clearwater took a deep breath. She had been looking up at Justice periodically, whose expression was impassive, considering, then she looked back down and continued.

"Black and Potter did more than simply conspire to commit the offence – they went ahead and executed on their plan. Alongside the interview, you will also hear from Auror Dawlish, one of the two Aurors who arrested Black on his return at Heathrow Aeroport from the students' flight from America. You will hear from Potter's friends, Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, on the differences they have noted between their friend _Rigel's_ personality, and Black's. These will, in their totality, demonstrate that Black was in America while Potter was at Hogwarts."

Clearwater stopped, looking up at Justice again, but the incarnation's expression hadn't changed. She was listening. "By encouraging Potter and participating in the offence, the prosecution will be submitting that Black meets all the elements of the offence of aiding and abetting in the commission of blood identity theft. By planning the offence together with Potter and by taking preparatory steps toward it, and indeed, completing it, the prosecution will be submitting that Black meets all the elements of conspiring to commit blood identity theft. Given the severity of these facts, especially the four-year period that the ruse continued, the prosecution will be seeking a term in Azkaban of no less than two years. Thank you."

Archie didn't miss the sharp intake of breath from behind him, though he felt grimly vindicated. _Days_ of arguments with Dad over what he planned to do – a full week of it, if he was truthful – and he was right. He would never plead guilty, and Dad had thought he should have tried any of the other defenses with the goal of mitigating the sentence, but the Ministry had never planned on following the rules in his case. Even if two years in Azkaban wasn't much compared to a _life _imprisonment, most went insane within a year.

"As I have said, Madam Prosecutor, I do not deal in things so mundane as _imprisonment_. I deal in life, soul, and magic only." Justice's voice was bored. "Are you seeking execution? Loss of his soul? Loss of his magic, or some part of his magic? A permanent curse of some kind on only him, or one that should continue through to his descendants?"

"Er…" Clearwater paled. "I, er – I will need to seek instructions. May I return to this point in my closing submissions?"

Justice sighed, shaking her head in mild disgust, and turned to Percy. "Granted. Defense – proceed."

"Weasley, first initial P, your honour." Percy rose from his seat, much more put together than Clearwater had been, in Archie's opinion. "The defense does not deny the elements of the offence, but instead rejects the idea that blood identity theft is an offence at all. Blood identity is an immutable personal characteristic that cannot be changed and which was not, traditionally, recognized as a distinction among witches and wizards. I expect you to hear that, prior to the Statute of Secrecy's enactment in 1689, witches and wizards lived alongside our Muggle neighbours, and that we did not distinguish by blood identity. I further expect you to hear that, on the basis of their magic alone, halfbloods and Muggleborns are on no way lesser than purebloods – they are capable of the same feats, occasionally more."

Justice was leaning forward in interest, which was at least a change from the bored and languid pose she had taken for the prosecution's opening. Her lips were curved in what seemed to be a tiny half-smile, which disappeared almost the same instant that Archie realized it was there. Percy paused, as if waiting for a response, but she tilted her head slightly, a motion to move on. Archie chanced a glance at Clearwater, who had a roll of parchment in front of her and was ferociously scribbling, ink flying everywhere on her hands. Archie had no idea how she would read what she had written later – Archie hated writing with quill and ink, unless he slowed down to half his normal speed or less, everything would be illegible. Behind him, Archie could hear a storm of whispers, and he tried to ignore it.

"I expect you to hear that, in nine hundred years of admitting Muggleborns and halfbloods to Hogwarts, there were no major incidents that justified the exclusion of Muggleborns or halfbloods from school. I further expect you to hear that, to the extent that there are any differences between Muggleborns and halfbloods and purebloods, such differences are minute and exaggerated, and that the laws discriminating against Muggleborns and halfbloods are unjustified, overbroad, create danger for Muggleborns and halfbloods and are unsupported in a free and just society. Finally, I expect you to hear from many people, including Arcturus Rigel Black, a pureblood, about the ways in which these laws have personally and negatively affected them.

"The defense will be seeking that you strike the law against blood identity theft, and therefore the charges against Arcturus Rigel Black, on the basis that they are unjust and cannot be supported. Thank you." Percy returned to his seat, sitting down, and Archie took in a deep breath.

His opening had been _amazing_. Archie was never happier that he had picked Percival Ignatius Weasley to be his lawyer. Even if Percy was young, even if Percy was awkward and a little uptight, what other lawyer would have taken a stand like this? He put his hand on Percy's arm, squeezing a little and flashing him a smile, but the barrister only shook his head at him. He scribbled something on the No-Maj legal pad he had, passing it over.

_This is just the beginning_, he wrote. _No one can tell what will happen. You're still insane. _

_All the Blacks are,_ Archie wrote back. _I believe in you, Percy, and I believe in Justice. She'll see it our way – she has to!_

Percy glared at him, shook his head, then pulled out a second pad of paper and a series of pens. Archie smiled slightly – Percy would see. It was risky, and Archie didn't deny that, but if he didn't believe in his case, no one would. And imagine if he could get all the blood discrimination laws struck in one fell swoop! Percy said he was being overconfident: at best, Justice was only likely to strike down blood identity theft alone, and even that was far from certain.

All the risks Archie took, however, they would be worth it if the laws were struck. And, knowing that this was a possibility, he would never have been able to live with himself if he hadn't taken it. Life was short – he learned that in the Darien Gap. He would not live with regrets, and keeping his head down and accepting a fine, instead of taking this opportunity, that would have been one of the biggest regrets of his life.

"I will have _silence_ in the court," Justice said, glaring out over the audience, and Archie felt the command running over his head, ruffling his hair like a breeze. The noise behind him halted suddenly, and he knew that there had been some sort of magic behind it. "This court is a place of _respect, _and if you cannot be _silent_, then you may leave."

No one moved, though Archie didn't know if that meant that they _chose not to_, or if they couldn't. Experimentally, he lifted one foot – he could still move, so presumably they were choosing not to.

"Very well." Justice turned back to the prosecution table, relaxing back into her chair. "Madam Clearwater, your first witness."

Clearwater stood up and took the podium, looking increasingly uncertain as she looked over her notes – both the ones she had taken today, as well as the ones she had taken before. "Madam Justice, if I may call Armand Abbott, correspondent for the Daily Prophet."

Armand Abbott was a small, thin man with sandy brown hair and eyes that flickered over the courtroom, over the proceedings, constantly. His nose, a small snub nose, twitched every few minutes, an expression betraying his nervousness. One of the court clerks, the one who had left earlier, had returned during the opening statements. She rose, motioning for the wizard to raise his right hand. "Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I do," Abbott said, and even his voice was nervous. It was high-pitched, trembling in quality, but he sat down easily enough, and Clearwater began her examination.

It was dull. Archie shouldn't have thought so, considering it was his life on the line, but this examination was _dull_. Armand Abbott was a correspondent with the Daily Prophet, but his primary responsibility was to review and collect information from international newspapers. He specialized in English-language newspapers in America and Australia and reviewed about six newspapers daily for anything important. When he found things that were important, he would present them for review by his supervising editor, who would make the final decision on what matters were reported in the Daily Prophet, and usually asked that they be summarized for the Wizarding British public. When he read Archie's interview in the _American Standard_, he had followed his procedure and had presented it to his supervising editor, and in usual practice, he was asked to summarize it for the Wizarding British public.

Archie didn't like the word _summarize_, and he knew without having to look that Hermione's expression behind him would be that very polite "_oh yes, really?_" look that she sometimes adopted when people told the biggest fibs in front of her. He heard a very soft scoff from a few rows behind him – that had to be Saoirse.

"You're lying," Justice said, a bored but considering look in her eyes. "I have already given my first warning for lying."

"Censor," Abbott blurted out, all in a rush as he flushed. "_Censor _the interview. I was asked to censor the interview. I did."

Justice stared at him for a few moments, head tilted and expressionless, then she leaned back. "Go on."

"I… largely removed material that would be considered offensive by the Wizarding British public," Abbott explained, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. He mopped his brow. "From my recollection, I removed further details about the blood discrimination laws, I removed Harriett Potter's achievements, and I removed Black's message to the public."

"Is this the article that you revised and published in the Daily Prophet?" Clearwater passed a newspaper cut-out to one of the court clerks, who passed it to the witness.

Abbott skimmed the article quickly, then he nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Your Honour, if I might introduce the article as Exhibit A?"

"Granted. Miss Clearwater, what is the relevance of all of this?" Justice's voice was mild, but Archie thought he could hear a note of annoyance. "Ignoring the fact that your witness has admitted that he did not interview the accused, that all he did was read and plagiarise the article from an American newspaper, and that he then published it under his own byline, it does not appear to me that any of this is relevant at all to the heart of this case. Mr. Weasley, does Mr. Black _deny_ any of the facts leading to the charges?"

Percy stood. "No, Your Honour. He does not."

Justice turned back to Clearwater, and the disdain was evident on her face. "In that case, Miss Clearwater, what is the _relevance_ of this interview? The question is whether the law is _just_. Do you have any questions relating to the issue in question, or was this just to establish that Mr. Black did an interview where he admitted the key elements of the alleged offence?"

Clearwater stopped, and from his perspective beside Percy, Archie could see her shaking, the way her breath caught in her throat. She had no idea what to do, Archie realized – and, more than that, she was on the point of tears. She breathed deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, and Archie guessed that she had to be thinking very fast. While trying not to cry. "I, er," she stuttered, and her voice wavered. "I – I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honour.

"Very well." Justice turned to Percy, eyeing him beadily. "Your witness, Mr. Weasley."

"I have no questions for Mr. Abbott, Your Honour." Percy hadn't even stood up properly to speak, instead rising to a sort of hunched posture and sitting back down once the sentence was out. "We may move on."

"Understood. Miss Clearwater, your next witness? And I hope he is a great deal more relevant than your last." Justice's voice was a warning, and Clearwater was pale but determined as she strode to the podium, a sheet of parchment in hand. Archie thought he recognized the notes she had taken during Percy's opening statement.

"Your Honour," she said, her voice slower than before, more deferential, but steady. "Regrettably, I must _beg_ you for an adjournment. The prosecution was not advised that the defense would be challenging the law, and I did not prepare for this eventuality. As my colleague, Mr. Weasley, said, it has been five hundred very long years since you were last summoned, and I was not – I did not know it was _possible_ to challenge a law within a trial. In the name of fairness, the prosecution requires an adjournment to revise and prepare its case."

There was silence, as Justice leaned back in her chair and studied Clearwater for a long, long moment. She was expressionless, though one of her fingers was tapping thoughtfully on the arm of her chair. She was still lounging, yet she somehow still exuded an air of danger. Clearwater stared down at the podium, waiting for, or maybe dreading, the ruling. Unlike before, she was still as stone – so far past fear that she had simply given up.

"I am _very_ unhappy about this, Miss Clearwater." Justice's voice was icy, stern, a harsh lecture. Coming from Aldon's body, Archie thought there should be something very funny about it, but it really wasn't – whatever was possessing him was so different, so far beyond mortality, that even if it was his almost-friend's body, it wasn't him, and Archie couldn't put them together in his head. They simply didn't fit. "I am extremely disappointed with the poor state of your preparation."

"I am aware, your Honour." Clearwater didn't look up from the podium, and Archie thought he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes, even if they weren't present in her voice. There was a long silence, as Justice examined her, as if she was a very curious bug pinned on a board.

"How much time will you need, Miss Clearwater, to prepare your case _properly_?" she drawled eventually, her head tilted in consideration.

"A week, Your Honour." Clearwater took a breath and looked up, and her face was red, her eyes were damp, but there were no tears on her face. "We can be prepared in a week."

Justice continued staring at her for a few minutes, eyeing her hair, her clothes, her face, before she inclined her head. "You have a day," she said simply. "That should be more than enough time to plan your trial strategy and line your witnesses up for tomorrow. I will even give you a delayed start – ten-thirty in the morning, Miss Clearwater, and not a moment later."

"Yes, Your Honour. Thank you, Your Honour." Clearwater nodded, head held high, and she turned to sit down at her own counsel table, neatly gathering her parchment scrolls in one bundle. The expression on her face was worried, almost a little lost, but Archie thought there was something else to it – a hint of determination, maybe, a spark of excitement, the acknowledgement of a challenge accepted.

"On the request of the prosecution, court is adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten-thirty," Justice ruled, standing from her seat. "Now, who has responsibility for my Chosen?"

There was silence, again, and Archie gave an almost panicked glance towards Percy – Aldon was not _publicly _supposed to be known as their ally, and he hadn't said that he would be _possessed!_ They had thought he would perform the ritual, and that he would have to be present to sustain the spell, but they hadn't expected that _he_ would be the vessel. Percy's lips were thin, pressed together, and he quickly stood up.

"Madam Justice," he began, slightly hesitant. "I am – in our ignorance, we failed to understand the details of the rite of summoning. He came with us, but there is no one with direct responsibility for him."

Justice pursed her lips, frowning. "You did not appreciate that I would possess him for the duration of the trial," she said baldly. "You did not know that, outside this courtroom, he will spend most of his time unconscious, that no one may interfere with the propriety of this trial?"

"We did not, Your Honour," Percy admitted freely, even as Archie blanched. Aldon had had plans for these months – even outside the trial, he been walking with a bit of jaunt in his step, because Chess had apparently gotten back some paperwork to him so he could have a closer look at her ACD. It looked like that would need to wait, if he would be out of it any time he wasn't in court for the entirety of the trial.

"I see." Justice paused. "In that case, someone will need to _take_ responsibility for him – he will fall unconscious the moment he crosses my insignia and will go nowhere under his own power. Even for the hour or so of waking I grant him each day, he will be in a fugue or dream-like state, with only enough ability to eat and perform the bodily functions I would rather not experience. Not you, counsellor, nor anyone else anticipated to be involved in this trial."

"That could be… difficult, Your Honour." Percy's voice was slow, and Archie understood. Most of the people here today would be somehow involved with the trial, or they were there in support of one side or another – they were not unbiased observers, and many of the people who could be considered unbiased had no reason to step forward and help. Archie looked around, but he didn't recognize most of the people who had attended – Malfoy and Parkinson, he knew, and they were sitting with people who had to have been their parents, and Nott and Bulstrode were there, but very few others. Some he thought he might have seen once or twice, at a Gala event or other, but he couldn't be certain. Lord and Lady Parkinson had their heads together but made no move to rise.

There was a long, awkward pause. Archie waited, and he waited, and he exchanged looks with Dad, who shook his head, and then with Uncle Remus, who also shook his head. Around the room, people were poker-faced, murmuring slightly, but it didn't seem like anyone was willing to get involved. A minute passed – two minutes. Then three, and Justice scowled.

Ten minutes. It was ten minutes of cold, awkward silence, then someone, Lord Parkinson, stood up, but only to bow and exit the courtroom.

Twenty minutes, then thirty. The courtroom was warm, too warm with bodies, and it was obvious that Justice intended on sitting there and letting them sweat until someone stepped forward. Thirty minutes, and Archie knew that Aldon was in a room of people who all knew him, knew who he was, many of whom he was sure he was at least nominally friendly with, and yet no one stepped forward.

Forty-five minutes in, the door to the courtroom opened slightly, and a meek, willowy brunette slipped in, followed by a broad-shouldered Asian man who hung back, standing at the back of the room. The woman wore a terrified expression on her face, mixed with hard determination and some element of sorrow, as she stepped forward to the front of the room, seemingly trying to shrink from the many eyes that followed her. She looked ready to cry.

"I will take responsibility for him," she said. Her voice was even, quiet, a little nervous. "My name is Christina Blake, Madam Justice. I do not have any association with either the prosecution or the defense. I work closely with his father, and Mr. Rosier has worked under me, or in my office, for some time."

Justice tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes. "That is not all he is to you," she said, and it was not a question, only a bald statement. "I do not like people who hide things from me. Why should I entrust my current physical form to _you?_"

The woman shifted, uncomfortable with the question, looking down. "Does it matter, Your Honour? It's not relevant. I care for him deeply."

"I see that is true." Justice's words were slow, measured, almost a little puzzled. "But I am cautious, through long experience, of the threats often posed to my Chosen in the course of a trial – it is not unusual for a party to attempt to destroy my physical form to alter the course of a trial, though I react violently to any such attempts. You have said you are close to his father, but about him, you have only said that he worked under you for a short time. This does not make any sense – if you had more of a relationship to him than merely being his co-worker, you would have said otherwise."

"He would not want it known." Blake didn't look up. "It isn't relevant."

"_I_ am the one who decides relevance." Justice's voice was hard. "I care not for what this body would want – for the duration of this trial, _I_ make the decisions, and I am concerned primarily with the safety of my Chosen, not his _wishes._ Explain."

The woman swallowed. "I am," she said, a little choked, then she took a deep, shaky breath, and looked up. "I am—"

She stopped again, words seeming to fail her, then she coughed and cleared her throat.

"Spit it out," Justice said, lifting her head in a mix of curiosity and disdain. "I have no patience for—"

"I am his mother!" She burst out – a clear, bald statement, audible through the back of the courtroom.

There was a moment of pure, absolute, shocked silence. Then, Justice tilted her head.

"I see," she said, and Archie had the briefest moment of panic, _shit_, _shit, shit_, before he looked over at Percy, eyes wide, but Percy seemed just as taken aback. Behind him, Archie could hear that the room had positively _erupted_ in noise, some people barely managing to keep their voices down to a whisper, and the scratches of the reporters' quills going into overdrive.

"His _what_—"

"It can't be—"

"_Silence!_" Justice roared, clapping her hands once, and words died, smothered in people's throats. Archie's tongue was sealed to the roof of his mouth. He could barely breathe, struggling to get air in through his nose. The air in the room was heavy, oppressive, and Archie slowed his breath down, forcing himself to be satisfied with the small amount of air that he got. It was enough, just enough. He couldn't make a sound. "I will have _order_ in the court, and those of you who cannot be _silent_, get out, before I drain all your magic in consequence."

The stampede for the door would have almost been funny, if it weren't for the reason. Archie had no idea what to do, what he could do, if there was anything he could do. He turned around, throwing a pleading look at Dad, but Dad only shook his head, face grim. Hermione stayed, as did John and Chess, and the row of British Muggleborns and halfbloods he had met through the Triwizard Tournament.

"Very well," Justice said, once the room was mostly clear. "Madam Blake, I shall entrust my Chosen to your care. Court is dismissed."

Archie rose from his seat, in unison with everyone remaining in the court and imitating the others as they bowed and filed out of the court. He looked back as he left, where Justice held her possessed body's head close to the woman who was, in all probability, Aldon's biological mother, telling her something, while the broad-shouldered Asian man who had come with her stood close by. He hoped, despite a dreading conviction that it could not be so easy, that this would not go too badly for his new almost-friend.

XXX

"What the fuck," Derrick hissed, on the steps of the courthouse. "What the _actual_ fuck just happened?"

"Something insane," Isran replied, his tone a little dry. "Hermione, your boyfriend is mad."

"He says it's a family trait." Hermione couldn't help but smile. Maybe it was insanity, but somehow, she couldn't help but be pulled along. She never really could, and that was exactly how they had ended up here. Well, that and Aldon Rosier, who was, if at all possible, even more mad than Archie. At least Archie could be convinced to listen to reason, most of the time; Aldon Rosier was a chauvinistic noble asshole who always thought he was right.

She still felt sorry for him, after today. She knew he hadn't been upfront with his family – about his gift, about what he knew, or about what he was doing. She had done enough research on the Rosier family to know exactly who Aldon Rosier was, and what he stood to lose. And it was quite a lot – his family was in the inner circle of the SOW Party, and he had effectively crossed enemy lines to help Archie. And if she knew, then John knew, and as much as John's act that he was just a boneheaded jock annoyed her, John would never let anyone who was a threat hang around. Or at least he would keep a sharp eye on them.

Which, she supposed, he had been doing. Still, he had gone out of his way to introduce Aldon to Francesca, and he would never have done that if Aldon posed any threat. Somehow, both John and Archie were convinced, despite all evidence to the contrary, that Francesca was somehow helpless or defenseless and that she needed to be sheltered. It was stupid.

"Let's move past Aldon Rosier for a moment," she said, pulling her two schoolmates to one side of the courthouse doors. Their two Irish allies exchanged a look and joined them, then Toby sighed and followed, rubbing his forehead slightly. "We did get a good admission today from that reporter, remember?"

"The thing about the censoring?" Isran sighed and shook his head. "It had occurred to me too, right after he said it – we could have flooded Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow, or the other wizarding communities with copies of the original from the _American Standard_. The problem is… Rosier."

"Isran's right," Derrick chipped in, his voice a low, annoyed burr. "I mean, I can't blame the guy, but it's going to be all over the Evening Prophet tonight and he'll be the news cycle for the next week at least. No one is going to remember or report on a little detail from the trial like how the Arcturus Rigel Black interview was censored."

"For England, maybe, but Ireland is another matter." Saoirse paused, tilting her head. "We have never cared much for Wizarding British noble scandals – there are very few noble families in Wizarding Ireland, and they're interlopers, not of ours. It may be reported in the _Irish Gales_. Sean and I will blitz the interview through Ireland, and I'll translate it in full and send it in to the _Nuachtlitir Draoi_. There was a summary in it before, but not the complete interview. It'll only reach maybe three hundred people, but it's a start."

"Thank you, Saiorse." Hermione breathed a sigh, something between relief and gratitude. It was a lot to ask someone to translate a full article, but it needed to be done, and the good thing about the _Nuachtlitir Draoi_ was that it was only read by mages who were unfriendly to the Ministry and the SOW Party anyway. The newspaper – more a newsletter, really – was written entirely in Gaelic, only read by mages versed in what they would call _the traditional ways_ and which the Ministry would call _dangerous and outdated illegal magical practices_. "Isran, Toby, Derrick – let's start printing extras of the American Standard interview for distribution anyway. It doesn't need to be many, but let's be prepared. At least, we can hope the trial might spark some renewed interest."

"I'll take it to a print shop," Toby volunteered. "There's a place near my hostel. How many – say, a hundred?"

"Let's make that two hundred," Hermione said decisively. "Send fifty copies over to Sean in Ireland, keep fifty copies for yourself for Hogsmeade and the smaller communities in Wizarding Scotland, and Derrick, Isran and I will take the last hundred and we'll filter them through Diagon Alley and England itself. Are you coming tomorrow? If so, we can do the hand-off then – if not, regular post should still have them to us by Wednesday."

Toby flashed a thumbs-up sign. "Since we ended early today, shouldn't be a problem."

"We can't, so mail it to me for the two of us." Sean shook his head, somewhat regretfully. "Wish we could come, but it's a long way for us."

"Understandable." Hermione caught a glimpse of Sirius, Archie, John and Chess waving at her. "I have to go. I'll see you tomorrow, or if not, sometime soon."

She turned from them and jogged to catch up with her friends, taking a few deep breaths to hide her worries. Archie had taken a huge risk, and even if she got a deep and painful knot in her stomach at the thought of it, she would go ahead and use his chosen strategy to push her cause forward. She had to, otherwise this would all be for nothing. She caught up to him, accepting the hand he held out to her, and flashed him a quick smile – by the tremble in his hand, he was tired, a little overwhelmed or worried, and he was looking for support. She let him pull her into his arms for a warm, slightly shaky embrace. She breathed slowly, listening for Archie's breaths to match her.

"All good?" he asked, after a moment, rubbing his nose into her hair. She didn't have any idea why Archie was so fascinated with her hair – it was a disaster on the best of days, never lying where she wanted it to go, so mostly she kept it locked up or tied down in a tight French braid.

"All good," she lied, hugging him back.

It wasn't all good. It wouldn't be all good until they were finished this stupid trial, and then it would only be good if _Archie_ came out the other side alive and mostly intact. She wanted change as much or more than he did, but she still worried.

XXX

Aldon woke up.

He didn't know where he was. He recognized, as if from a very distant place, that this was not at all usual and that he should have been concerned. He wasn't – instead, it was simply something a little curious. The ceiling above him was all white, with stucco curlicue designs in the corners, and his blankets were snow-white, textured with small circles that created a ripple effect through the fabric. His pillows were twice the size of his usual ones, in purple, but with the same texture. He ran his hands over them briefly, fascinated with the sensation.

He should get up, he thought vaguely. Wake up, eat something, clean himself up, then he should be back to bed because he was back in court tomorrow and those were always exhausting days. He needed his strength.

But he wasn't a lawyer. He wasn't associated with the courts at all, so why was he in court tomorrow? He sat up, frowning slightly – this should all worry him a great deal more than it was, because he was filled with a strange, floating sensation of uncaring. Everything was fine. Everything was perfectly fine.

Aldon Rosier was currently possessed, and that was _entirely okay_. That was right – he had summoned the Incarnation of Justice, and she was currently inhabiting him and subtly directing him to do the things he needed to do, before she put him back under. He had flashes of the trial, here and there, but none of it really connected. He had no idea what had happened, and he … wasn't as concerned about that as he should be.

He stood up, thinking vaguely about finding something to eat, and he noticed that he was still in his court robes – dark blue, silk, gold filigree buttons. It was wrinkled now. He didn't like that, but he would no doubt Transfigure it into something else once they were back in court, so he didn't really care. Or maybe she didn't care, which meant he didn't care. He wasn't sure.

The room was done in white. The walls were a creamy off-white, and there was a purple throw at the foot of his bed, matching his pillows. He touched it briefly – he couldn't identify the material, but it was soft, warm, fluffy. He had a bedside table, which was painted in the same shade of purple, with gold accents on the knobs to the drawers. There was a crystalline light-orb sitting on top, which had been left on. It was in the American style, a piece of American magical technology, he realized distantly; they were expensive and rare in Wizarding Britain, since they hadn't been reverse-engineered yet. The owner of this home had to be first, magical, and second, wealthy. He nodded sagely to himself at his logical reasoning.

Across from the bed was a large mirror, framed in gold, and Aldon examined himself for a moment. He didn't feel like himself, but he looked the same, which was very strange indeed. He felt like perhaps he should be something _more, _when he was being possessed by the Incarnation of Justice. But maybe not – the binding runes on the courtroom made it seem like her powers were sharply curtailed outside the courtroom, though she would hold him until the final ruling of the trial.

He didn't know that. Or did he? Random knowledge, thoughts, were bubbling up in his mind, as if from a very long way away. He didn't know if he had known this information before, but he knew it now. He also had flashes, confusing flashes of other courtrooms, other trials, where people were dressed all wrong, or all right, where he had stripped people of their magic, struck them down where they stood, or ripped out their souls. He frowned, trying to make those images disappear, and his counterpart in the mirror frowned with him. Strange. The mirror didn't talk to him, tell him to stop frowning. It was silent. Just an empty mirror.

He moved over to the window, a broad window which had been left open. Noise rose up from the street, and he looked down to see metal contraptions moving like fish on the roadways below. He seemed to be very high up in the air, high enough to be flying, so he had to be in a very tall building. Outside, he could see other buildings stretching into the sky, far taller than any wizarding building he knew. He stared, for a minute or so, at all the other competing buildings. Where was he?

There was a small, circular, table lying under the window, in a warm brown accented with gold in the centre of the table and on the one, central leg. The table was framed by two chairs, both upholstered in purple, with gold on the arms and back. They were small chairs, older in style and elegant, and he tilted his head slightly as he examined them. They weren't intended for lounging, perhaps only for sitting while writing a letter or something small.

He would find more answers outside the room, he suspected. His thinking was all wrong – it was slow, as if he had been hit with an Impedimenta Jinx and was waiting for it to wear off. If he had the ability to worry about that, he thought he should be worried about that, but instead he was filled with a dreamy, floating sort of feeling that made it very difficult to care about anything.

He wandered out into the hallway and stopped. There was a large frame on the wall, holding several pictures, all of which were moving like magical photographs did. All the pictures were of him – there was one where he couldn't have been more than two or three, laughing, another one when he was probably seven or so, dolled up in dress robes, where he was frowning. Another one in his Hogwarts robes, probably as a first year, his Slytherin patch on his chest and a green and silver tie at his neck, a few other formal pictures – he recognized the robes he had worn at the New Year's Gala, two years ago. That was all… very odd.

The hallway was short, only having the room he was in, a bathroom, and a door at the end of the hall which he assumed had to lead to the master suite. He wasn't interested in that – it was unlikely that there would be any food in the master bedroom, and he needed to eat. He was hungry, and he could hear some noise from the other direction, the chatter of weirdly echoing voices, so he headed that way.

He walked out into an adjoining set of rooms. There was a kitchen, which had some sort kind of food in on the counter. A rich scent assaulted his nose, but he didn't recognise what it was. He glanced at the packages – a large paper bag had held, it seemed, three smaller containers made of a hard, shell-like material. All three were filled with something like a stew, with big chunks of things it. One of them had meat, and it was open, and he leaned over, smelling something tangy. He identified garlic, stewed tomatoes, but something unlike that, a spice he didn't recognise. One of the others was green, with chunks of something white and cubed, and the last one had large pieces of potato and cauliflower. There was also a device on the counter, lit up with a blinking red icon, and he glanced in to see cooked rice.

The rest of the kitchen was curious, too. There was a large sink, empty but for a few mugs, but many other interesting devices that he wasn't sure he recognized. There was something in the corner that was black, with a glass, flat-topped pitcher underneath, labelled, oddly, with lines and cup numbers. There was no fireplace, as he would have expected, either for cooking or for the Floo, but there was a large contraption that he would hesitantly label as the stove top and oven – it didn't look like any stove or oven he had ever seen before, but they were close enough that it seemed like a reasonable guess. There was also a large, white box, with doors for a small upper compartment and a larger lower one. He reached out, opening the lower one quickly, and was surprised by the blast of cool air that hit his face.

Muggle technology, he realized vaguely, shutting the strange contraption. Some kind of ice box, to prevent food from spoiling.

"Aldon?" The voice was soft, warm, cautious, and Aldon turned around to see, of all people, Director Blake. From the New Developments Division of the Rosier Investment Trust. She was standing in a doorway leading to, he guessed, the other parts of … wherever he was. She was here, so he had to be… somewhere she lived?

He didn't know why she was there.

"Yes?" Aldon said, a little quizzical. Normally this would have distressed him so much more, he suspected, but nothing seemed very important when Justice was possessing him.

Director Blake approached him slowly, as if he was a feral animal. "How much – how much do you remember of this afternoon?"

"Very little," Aldon admitted freely, with a strange light-headed uncaring that another part of him, the part he suspected was probably his genuine personality, was currently ringing alarm bells over. He ignored it. "I am… currently possessed. I think I need to eat."

"I – I ordered Indian. I don't know if you like Indian food?" Director Blake moved hesitantly to the counter, pulling out a bowl from a cabinet above, filling it with rice and handing it to him. "I have here murgh makhani, which is butter chicken, but in case you're a vegetarian, I also ordered you some palak paneer, which is spinach with cheese, and aloo gobi, which is potatoes with onion and cauliflower. Er, do you have any preferences? Justice warned me that you would eat a lot and you wouldn't be awake long, nor would you be yourself, so I just ordered food and hoped you would like it. Um, we didn't go out to eat a lot when you were working with us, so I don't know what you like, and your father didn't know either. I'm sorry, I'll order something else if you don't like it, or if it's not enough, or… well. I'll just order a pizza, shall I?"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Aldon tried, a little confused, struggling to keep up with the quick, nervous cadence of her speech and the flow of information. He reached for the container of potatoes and cauliflower. He wasn't sure what any of these foods really were, but he had to eat something, and this looked the least foreign. "I am… why am I here? Where am I?"

Director Blake took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "All right. Okay. I can do this. We should talk about what happened, Aldon. Come sit in the dining room – I'll do my best to explain. I'll take the food with us."

She pulled out her wand and, with a quick wave, levitated the whole package and sent it soaring out of the kitchen, into the dining room. Aldon followed, looking around with a distant sort of interest.

The dining room opened to a parlour. It seemed like people could sit and eat at the table, but still talk to people sitting in the living area. Both rooms were done in light greys, with splashes of purple and dark blues. The sofa was dark blue, with a dark blue pouffe, and there was a huge, matching armchair. One wall was covered in a grand bookshelf, and a faraway part of Aldon prodded him to go and peruse. He ignored it. On another wall, there was something that looked like a wide dresser or sideboard, on which there was a strange black box, out of which was coming the noise he had heard in the hallway. They sounded like voices, but so many voices – it wasn't a portrait, it couldn't be. Some part of him itched to go examine it more closely, but the larger part of him, the one in control of him and his thoughts and his actions, had him take a seat at the small dining room table. The food floated down in front of him, along with spoons and forks, and mechanically, he started spooning some of the strange potatoes and cauliflower and onions onto his bowl of rice.

There were more pictures of him, scattered here and there. On the wall in the dining room, there was a picture of him from not long ago, only a few years, standing and laughing in a circle with Ed and Alice. He wasn't sure when that had been taken – certainly after he turned 13, but his hair was windswept and he was laughing, though both Ed and Alice seemed to be annoyed. There were others in the living area, though they were of him when he was younger, before school started. One of him with an ice cream cone in hand, maybe six, pouting as he licked it; another, maybe five, tumbling around with the rare sabrelions that Father had had for a short while. On one side table, between the sofa and the armchair, there was a single, large, still portrait of his father, arm around Director Blake, both of them much younger. They were smiling for the camera, his father almost a little rakish in appearance and Director Blake had a bright smile that lit up her whole face.

"Another life," Director Blake said quietly, spooning some of the butter chicken onto her bowl of rice. "I keep it as a reminder. You can call me… Christie, I suppose, if you like, Aldon."

Aldon blinked slowly at her, the picture triggering another memory from the void. A summer at the New Developments Division. Hands, ears that looked like his. Swiping a hair from the brush that Director Blake – Christie – kept in her side drawer, from where she put her hair up around ten-thirty each morning, which was the time that she laughed and said that her mind started working. A Paternity Potion, glowing bright green, verifying his lineage.

"You're my mother," he said, his voice blunt as he took a bite of his food. It was spicier than he expected – the potatoes and cauliflower had a bite to them, but it wasn't bad, just different. He wondered vaguely if his real personality would be so open to the flavour. He suspected not. He was hungry, and food was food.

"Yes," Christie agreed, nodding slowly as she took a bite from her own bowl of rice. "It is… a long story. I don't think I have time to tell it to you now, especially when Justice said that you would be, well, not yourself. For now, what do you remember of this afternoon? Do you remember the end?"

Aldon cocked his head, taking another bite of his food, swallowing. He had to eat a lot – he had a full day of trial tomorrow, and this would be all he had for the next day, so eating was primary. Then, some sort of shower, and he had to handle his bodily functions too, and then it would be back to bed. Everything else was secondary. "No. Bits and pieces of the trial. I think I broke someone's legs."

"I—Well." His mother set her bowl down, shaking her head, evidently deciding not to respond to that point. Instead, she stood up, reaching for a newspaper lying on the low table in front of the sofa and armchair. "I suppose you worked out your parentage using your gift – Evan always said that you were exceptionally bright, that you take after me that way. I – I'm sorry, I'm babbling. I don't know how to break this to you – I barely know how to talk to you, not unless we're talking about numbers, or magical theory, or runes. So – So—"

She turned around and offered him the newspaper, folded oddly so that he couldn't see the headline. Aldon frowned a little, setting down his bowl of rice and spicy potatoes and cauliflower and onions to take it in hand. He unfolded it and put it down on the table beside him, picking up his bowl again – nothing, now, was as important as getting as many calories in him as possible for the next day.

He glanced over at the headline of the Evening Prophet. _ROSIER HEIR HALFBLOOD BASTARD_.

Some distant part of him was screaming, but Aldon found that he couldn't really dredge up anything other than a mild sort of concern as he skimmed the article. He couldn't concentrate enough to read, though certain lines still jumped out at him. _Rosier Heir, Aldon Rosier, revealed as halfblood_ was one line, then _mother is Christina Blake, Director of the New Development_s _Division at the Rosier Investment Trust_,_ known Muggleborn_, then, at the end, _no comment from the Lord Rosier at this time_.

"Oh," Aldon said, pushing the paper away in favour of spooning himself a new bowl of rice.

"Aldon." Christie's face was an open picture of worry. "You're not as panicked about this as I expected you to be, or as you should be. Do you understand what's happened? Am I getting through to you?"

Aldon thought about it. Thinking was difficult while possessed – he wasn't sure what were his thoughts and what was _something else, _what his feelings were and what was _other_. The article meant that his secrets were revealed, and somehow, he thought that should have bothered him so much more than it did. For now, there was food, there was a shower, there was a bed to return to, and there was a trial. The trial was everything, as was feeding and caring for this body so he didn't collapse and lose the possession, and everything else was secondary. This could wait.

"I'm now a known halfblood?" he tried eventually, reaching for the dish that Christie had described as spinach and cheese. Spinach and cheese sounded pleasantly mild.

"Yes." Christie drew out the word, uncertain. "And that means, Aldon, that you no longer have the rights of a pureblood. Evan said that he has to disown you – the political pressure will be too much, and he'll have no choice. Eveline and I fought him on it, but—" She sighed, and shook her head. "But, Aldon, sweetheart, I don't want you to worry about a thing. It's not going to be real. He'll make an announcement, he'll disown you politically, but he won't do the blood rite to formally cut you off. We got Eveline on the phone, she's creating a cover story, and fortunately the rite is complicated and requires a lot of ingredients that can only be found abroad, and your father is still young, by wizarding standards. She thinks that, as long as they can delay until the storm passes, people will forget they haven't done it. Then, when your father passes, the Rosier title will still come to you, as will everything else. There's no one else in line."

Aldon blinked, the words running over through his mind. He understood them, he understood each and every one of those words, but somehow, all together, they didn't make any sense. He understood _disowning_, and he understood _Evan_, his father, and _Eveline_, his mother, and… Christie was also his mother? And there were plans?

He paused in chewing his food, then he realized his bowl was empty and reached for the large pot with the rice, refilling it, then dumping on more of the spinach and cheese. That, he thought, he might genuinely like. He was still hungry, and he should probably eat all of this, as well as the pizza that she had offered to order for him. Pizza was delicious. The Italians made it.

Something clicked in his head, with a lot of effort. Some part of him was very frustrated and yelling at him, but he could barely hear it over the overwhelming compulsion to do exactly what he needed to do, and then go back to bed. Christie had spoken to his father and his mother. She had spoken enough to them to make plans.

"You spoke to Father?" He frowned, confused. "And mother? And you're also my mother. I don't… I'm not sure I understand."

Christie sighed very heavily, putting her head into her hands. "I – I don't know where to begin."

"Beginnings start at the beginning," Aldon said, nodding, and he thought it was potentially the most intelligent thing he had ever said.

She studied him for a few moments, while Aldon took the time to shovel away more food. Rice was good. Rice was filling, and the spinach and cheese was a pleasant add-on. He should also have some of the butter chicken, before Christie ate it all, so he spooned on some of that too, taking another hearty bite. He should ask for the pizza, too. He wondered vaguely how quickly the pizza would come if she ordered it. Maybe it would be here by the time he finished _this_ food and had a shower?

"The beginning..." Christie looked away from him. "Your father and I – we were involved. For a very long time. I was hired at Rosier Investment Trust almost right out of Ilvermorny. These were early days, Aldon, within the first ten years of the first reforms, before Muggleborn prejudice had fully sunk in. Halfbloods were still going to Hogwarts in those days, and Evan and I worried, but we didn't… It was different, then."

Aldon nodded, half-listening, but mainly eating. If Christie was talking, then she couldn't finish her butter chicken, and he would be able to eat _all_ of it, because it was delicious. It was these spices. Butter chicken was creamy, almost sweet and rich and he could taste garlic and cumin. Cumin was a good spice. He liked cumin.

"We were together, and we kept it quiet at first because it was, you know, an office romance. I didn't want to be fired, and Evan wanted me where I was, in the company. He was so dashing to me, then. He looked so much like you do now, with the same bright eyes, a daring grin. Taller, though, and a little broader – in terms of body shape, you take after my family. It wasn't – it wasn't blood prejudice that kept us quiet, those first few years, just normal things. I loved my job, and I still do, in fact. I didn't want to lose it. And Evan, he was trying to balance his responsibilities as the Rosier Heir, as a noble, as a future politician, and it was – we were trying to find the right time to break it open. We went on dates in the Muggle world, we snuck out of the office on lunch dates or he would make up dinner plans and it was… it was hard, but it was also wonderful. Occasionally, we even snuck in a weekend trip, to France, Italy, the Greek Islands, and… years passed."

"And sex happened," Aldon supplied helpfully. Sex. What an odd word. Three letters. Sex. It was so like six, but not at all. Butter chicken was tasty.

"Yes, Aldon." Christie frowned at him, then shook her head. "We were intimate, for many years. Even now—" she cut herself off abruptly, then coughed. "Fifteen years. About fifteen years, we were together – we watched as the laws changed, the politics changed, and it became less about the office romance, more about my blood status. Evan — I tried to break it off, many times, I said he shouldn't have to live a lie, but he was – I loved him. I still do. Eveline says he's a coward and he doesn't deserve it, but I don't… It was complicated for him. Obviously, he married Eveline in name, but it was… well, that's for Eveline to explain to you. It's enough to say that it was a marriage in name only, which provided considerable benefits to her, and which shielded us as we kept seeing each other."

Some part of Aldon thought he should find this very interesting, and the rest of him agreed that he should keep her talking. His second (or was it his third?) bowl of rice was finished, and there was still half a container of the spicy potatoes and a bit of the spinach and cheese, but he had finished off the butter chicken. Except for the bowl that Christie had in front of her, that was. "Mother and Father always did have separate bedrooms," Aldon replied, nodding in encouragement, trying to be discreet as he reached over and swiped her bowl.

"I expect so." Christie replied dryly, her eyes following Aldon's hands. She hadn't missed his move, but she didn't try to stop him. "Anyway. You came along. It wasn't planned – it – it just happened. And you would be a halfblood, and politically, the writing was on the wall, and so—so—so I gave you up. We knew you were likely to take after Evan, wizarding genetics being what they are, so I took a leave from work, and Eveline stayed at home, pretending illness. When you were born, I had you about three, four days in my arms, then I gave you up. I wanted you—I wanted you to have everything, a fair chance at whatever you wanted out of life, I wanted to hand you everything on a silver platter, and you couldn't have that with me. And Evan promised me you would have the world with him. And Eveline, being Eveline, swore she would hold him to it."

She laughed suddenly, a little odd, bird-like laugh that seemed to be full of something else, reaching for her wand. A cardboard box flew through the air, landing in front of her, and white, soft sheets were spilling from the top. They were like handkerchiefs, Aldon thought, but they looked weaker, softer, easier to tear.

"I broke it off with Evan after that. Eveline says it was the smartest thing I ever did, because I always deserved better, but it wasn't like that. I couldn't have done it again, that's all, and every time I saw him, I remembered you. He is … He is good enough to slip me pictures of you, to tell me how you're doing, and of course when you wanted to come and work in my division, he arranged it so you would." She smiled at him, a small trembling smile. "And it was so – so wonderful, you know, to see you work. You're a lot like me when you work, you have the same tics, your brain works like mine. I – where am I going with this? It doesn't matter. None of that matters, sweetheart. Evan, Eveline and I – we'll take care of it, okay? It's all going to be okay."

She reached, with a trembling smile, for the box of fluffy handkerchiefs, pulled one out, wiped her eyes and blew her watery eyes. Aldon watched her, a hint of distant curiosity as he finished off her bowl of butter chicken and rice. He was moderately full now, but he should pack in another bowl if he could, and some of that pizza – he didn't know when next he would be able to eat. Sometimes, in other courts, he could order someone to bring him something over the lunch break, but just as often, people would be too terrified to follow through on his orders. Idiots. He wasn't dangerous to anyone except liars. He hated liars.

"Okay," he replied, nodding easily, putting the rest of the rice into his bowl and indiscriminately dumping the rest of the weird spicy potatoes onto it. On second thought, he did sort of like these too. Or maybe he did. Some part of his mind kicked him, frustrated, screaming at him that this was _important_, that he needed to listen, because this was critical to his future, but only a little of it bled through to him. "So…"

Christie took a deep breath in, then let it out slowly. "For now, you take my name – it's actually on your original Muggle birth certificate, _Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier. _Aldon was a name we all chose, Eveline demanded that Étienne be your middle name, and then there was me, and there was Evan. Your father and I are splitting the company – you'll have a job with me after the trial ends, and of course you can stay with me as long as you like. The second bedroom is yours, and Evan said he'll send a house-elf over to make you all your favourite foods, because I'm really – I don't cook much, and we'll get through this. Everything will blow over, and everything will be okay. Okay?"

Her eyes were huge, wet, seeking reassurance, and Aldon smiled. He had listened, and even though he wasn't sure how much he really understood (this wasn't critical for him – this wasn't the _trial_, and everything came down to the trial), but he did understand the last part. Everything would be okay, because his mother said it would be.

"Okay," he said cheerfully. "So, um, is there a pizza coming? I think I'd like a pizza."

XXX

_AN: Oh, Aldon. Just - oh, Aldon. More broadly - did I just use summoning Justice to shove in something that looks very much like constitutional litigation into a world where there is no constitution? Why, yes, I did, thanks for noticing. Extra thanks for this chapter (and the next few) to JAP, SHL and REW for helping me figure out what Wizarding British law looks like, and for reading over the openings for me. Also, as always, thanks to meek_bookworm for beta-ing, and while I am fairly convinced that everyone (except for the lawyers... do I have any of you yet? Any future lawyers in the readership?) is going to find this super boring, she swears up and down that it's not. So, uh, let me know in your reviews. Will try to explain the lawyerly in-jokes in ANs, though there aren't any in this one. I suppose I should note that Percy actually demonstrates a lot of tics young lawyers actually have, though that was more in the previous 2 chapters - he's a little overly academic, and a bit naive. A few more years of criminal practice should beat that out of him._

_Next Chapter: __Who's gonna fight for the weak / Who's gonna make 'em believe / I've got a hero, livin' in me / I'm gonna fight for what's right / Today I'm speaking my mind / And if it kills me tonight / I will be ready to die (Hero, by Skillet)_


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Archie woke to voices downstairs. He fished around on his bedside table for a moment, reaching for his pocket watch to check the time. It couldn't be that late, or someone would have come to wake him.

Seven-thirty in the morning. That wasn't bad, it was a bit of a lie-in, but they weren't in court today until ten-thirty anyway. Last night had been an early one, surprisingly enough – they were all too much in shock to say much, between both the possession and the public revelation. Aldon hadn't told them that he would be possessed as part of the rite, and Hermione was of the opinion that he probably hadn't known that it would happen. Then again, Hermione also thought Aldon was a bit of an idiot.

"Not academically." She had scowled, last night, explaining it. "He's an idiot in that particular way that exceptionally bright people are idiots – he's overconfident, he always thinks he's right, and he can justify literally anything to himself. He probably only saw what he wanted to see, and now the _idiot_ is completely incommunicado until the end of the trial. And that's assuming he survives."

"_Assuming_ he survives?" Dad had asked, eyebrow raised.

Hermione had shrugged, annoyed. She didn't like Aldon, but they did have the same ultimate goals, and she begrudgingly considered him _useful_. "I don't know. He was right in that there must have been enough survivors of the possession that it couldn't have been that dangerous, but there was something about the way that they wrote about it, in the memoirs – all the past Truth-speakers tried to avoid the duty, so there was something harrowing or traumatic about it, or there was some other risk involved. We don't really know. My thinking, though, is that the Incarnation probably has a vested interest in having him survive, at least to the end of trial. It's the condition he'll be in afterwards that I'm less sure about."

Archie had winced, looking at Dad with a pleading look. "Is there anything we can do to help him?"

Dad had sighed, but he had shaken his head. "I can reach out, see if I can find anything, but I don't know. I don't know Christina Blake, and judging from the Evening Prophet, my usual connections probably won't know anything. I'm not hopeful."

The Evening Prophet had not been kind to his new friend. Hermione was a little annoyed – they had planned for Archie's trial being front page news, and it was _not helpful_ for their strategy that Aldon had effectively taken over the headlines. Archie, however, couldn't be that upset – Aldon Rosier, the Rosier Heir, was now a known bastard. A _halfblood _bastard. That couldn't be easy.

He should get up, Archie thought, sitting up. It would be another long day today, and he should get behind it, find out what the morning Daily Prophet held. He recognized Dad's voice, and Uncle Remus', downstairs. He wouldn't bother putting on his suit just yet, but he pulled on a pair of black jeans and his last remaining AIM sweatshirt.

John was already down there, a glass of orange juice and a heaped plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of him. The Daily Prophet was spread out on the table in front of him, and Archie had to fight his instinct not to snatch the paper away and read.

The headline was stark. _ROSIER HEIR DISOWNED_, it said, and there was a clear picture of Lord Rosier on the front of it, standing in front of what Archie could only assume was Aldon's family home. Aldon had never talked about his home, but from the way Aldon had always reacted to the goings-on at Grimmauld Place, Archie had guessed his home life was very different. He didn't have to guess anymore, he thought grimly. Dad would _never_ have disowned him – not when it was so abundantly clear that Aldon _was_ Lord Rosier's son.

Dad caught the look of disgust on Archie's face and rested a hand on his arm. "Arch – Lord Rosier doesn't have much of a choice, not with the politics of it all."

"There's always a choice," Archie snapped, grey eyes flashing as he headed for the coffee pot. He poured himself a mug, some of the coffee sloshing over the rim of his cup in his anger, then he reached for the cream and sugar. "Some of them are just harder choices than others, that's all."

Dad shook his head, sighing. "Lord Rosier is in a tight position – he's in the SOW Party, as are the lion's share of his clients. He has pressure from the Party, from the Trust, to do what he is doing, and the Trust will be taking a hit, too. I haven't pulled our assets from the Trust, and I haven't touched James' assets either, but I have no doubt that other, more conservative, families are doing so now."

"That's only _money," _Archie replied, scowling. "_Money_. You would never have disowned me over money."

Dad's smile was grim. "But I'm not Lord Rosier. I don't think this will be the end – he also has no choice but to get rid of Christina Blake, because it doesn't look good that she's spent her entire career, more than thirty years, under his wing. I expect she'll be tonight's, or tomorrow's, news."

"Aldon anticipated this," John chipped in, his expression sombre as he slid the article over for Archie to skim. _Regrettable mistake of my youth_, Lord Rosier had said, as he threw his son away. Archie scowled and flipped the newspaper over, so he didn't have to read the rest. He didn't need to read the rest. John slid his plate over and offered him a piece of bacon. "Have some breakfast, Arch. Aldon always carried a trunk with him with the things he needed most. He knew it would come out eventually, and it was just a matter of time. That's why he was so accepting of us using his first name, too; he thought it would make us more comfortable with him, it wasn't something he would have normally allowed. It might even be better for him, that he's possessed right now. He doesn't have to live through the reality of it happening, he just has to come to terms with it after the fact."

Archie grimaced. He didn't envy Aldon the experience. That would be a shock, coming out of possession to find that his whole life had been turned upside down.

"After the trial, you can reach out to him," Uncle Remus patted him gently on the shoulder. "I'm sure, once he comes back to himself, he'll need someone to help him through it."

They were back at court by ten in the morning, Archie in his No-Maj suit, cleaned and pressed, with Dad and Uncle Remus behind him, and John and Chess in the row behind them. Hermione was coming directly from her home in Oxford, Flooing to Diagon Alley and then walking the final kilometre or so, ducking and dodging the crowds, to the Wizarding Courts of Law. She was meeting up with Toby and Derrick to pick up more copies of Archie's interview as printed in the _American Standard_, and Derrick was Apparating out to distribute them through the main wizarding communities today while Hermione sat with him in court. She would drop copies to the more sensitive BIA contacts later today for distribution, sliding them into the Ministry of Magic, the prisons, and the Wizengamot itself, if she could swing it. Archie wasn't sure how many people within Britain were a quiet part of the BIA, and when he had asked, Hermione had only shaken her head.

"More than you would think, but less than we would like," she had said, completely unhelpful. "A lot of them are in delicate positions, so better not to ask, Archie."

He left it at that, but he was still happy to see her arrive, sliding into her spot between Dad and Uncle Remus, in her navy-blue suit and pencil skirt. Archie liked that pencil skirt quite a lot.

She flashed him a small, worried, smile and leaned forward to reach one hand to his shoulder. "Are you all right, Archie?"

Archie grabbed her hand, held it tightly for a minute. Dad was always saying that Hermione could stay with them at Grimmauld Place, that there were plenty of bedrooms and he already had one fixed up for her on the second floor, but she always shook her head and left. Not even through the Floo – she always ran to catch the train from Caledonian Road Station, and Dad and Uncle Remus had both taken turns walking her there after dark, despite her insistence that she would be fine.

"I'm fine, Hermione," Archie said, trying to put some reassurance in his voice, some strength for the reporters that were still packing the courtroom, a day later. People, Muggleborns and halfbloods and purebloods, were watching him, and he would hold strong for them.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, and from slight waver of her smile, Archie knew that she was not convinced. Hermione knew him better than most though, so he didn't worry about it.

The courtroom doors slammed open, and Aldon Rosier walked in, blank-faced but moving under his own power. His robes weren't the fine ones that he had worn yesterday, but a simple black cotton that didn't seem at all the kind of thing he would pick to wear in the usual circumstances. His boots didn't match, and his hair was in a disarray, rather than the carefully arranged tousled look he usually favoured. Whispers broke out as he strode to the front, marching up onto the top dais. He spared hardly a glance at either Lady Bones, still awkwardly sitting on the second to top dais, and or the court clerks until he crossed the golden insignia on the floor.

On the top dais, he seemed to wake up, his movements becoming more graceful, more languid, instead of wooden and rote. He didn't look around just yet, instead taking the time to snap his fingers. The black robes he was wearing turned into the same sort of white dress he had worn yesterday, though today he had added a golden coronet on his head. He took a seat on the hard, wooden chair in the centre, which Archie hoped was spelled for comfort, and another wave of his hand had a large set of scales in front of him, a bare sword resting across his knees.

"So," Justice said, looking around the room. It was easier for Archie to distinguish Aldon from Justice when she started speaking – on top of her movements, there was a fluidity, an iron sort of uncaring, to her speech that Aldon simply didn't have. "I see that everyone has returned. Good. I hope that we may begin in earnest today."

Percy nodded, a sort of amused look in his blue eyes as he glanced over at the prosecution. Archie followed his gaze and did a slight double-take as he realized that yesterday's lead prosecutor, Umbridge, had returned. Clearwater was sitting beside her, bolt-upright with an expression of mild distaste combined with excitement combined with exhaustion. It was a weird combination, and Archie guessed by how bloodshot her eyes were that she hadn't slept – and she was probably two Wideye Potions and a few coffees into her day.

There was the slight rasp of a pad of paper being slid across the desk towards Archie, and he glanced at it quickly. _Morning is going to be a waste, _Percy had written. _Prosecutor Umbridge is not known for her adaptability._

Archie raised an eyebrow, but he was saved from replying when Umbridge stood. Her voice today, when she spoke, was a high-pitched simper.

"Good morning, Your Honour," she said, curtseying slightly. Justice examined her critically, as if she was a bug pinned onto a card. "My junior has updated me on what occurred yesterday, and we are ready to proceed. I would like to call Matthew Dawlish, Head Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Justice inclined her head, and Archie suppressed a scowl as he recognized the lean form of the Auror approaching the witness stand. Dawlish had arrested him, had flouted their own laws in over-executing a search warrant on him, and was, now, one of the few people that Archie found truly reprehensible. One of the two court clerks stood, swearing him in.

"Auror Dawlish, would you please introduce yourself to the court?" Umbridge began, in her high-pitched, girlish voice. "And your position?"

"Matthew Dawlish," the Auror replied bluntly. "I am currently Head Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which we call the DMLE for short."

"How long have you been at the DMLE?"

"Twenty-two years – first as a junior Auror, then as a senior Auror. I spent about two years as the Deputy Head under Lord James Potter, then I was promoted when he was forced to resign in the… circumstances." Auror Dawlish's voice was almost bored, and Archie heard the scribble of pens and quills from both prosecution and defense tables. Umbridge wasn't taking notes, but Clearwater was writing madly, a look of intense concentration on her face.

"The… circumstances," Umbridge repeated. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I would," Dawlish replied, before launching into an explanation of the Rigel Black scandal. Archie listened carefully – it was both similar to what Aldon had told him about what had happened, what was published in the Daily Prophet, and somehow not at all the same.

The way that Aldon had explained it, which Archie trusted was probably the most accurate version of events, Harry had returned to Hogwarts after that final, dreadful, game. She had mentioned to him that she needed to share what she knew, what she had heard, with Headmaster Dumbledore. Aldon, along with the Weasley Twins, escorted her to the Hospital Wing, where Aldon had dropped a listening rune before leaving. Aldon had tried to listen in on Harry's report to Dumbledore, but his rune was badly positioned, and he didn't pick up most of that discussion. All he had really gotten was that Wizarding Britain's newfound Dark wizard was something like a more extreme version of Lord Riddle.

The Aurors had arrived over dinner: Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Shafiq, and Rowle. Dad had scowled at the mention of Rowle, who apparently had a reputation for being heavy-handed, but Aldon had denied that Rowle had done anything but follow orders that night, to his knowledge. The listening rune had caught most of the Harry's charges, as well as the subsequent argument on whether she would be taken with the Aurors that night, then Aldon had set himself up to break her out. He wouldn't tell Archie or Dad how he had done that – better they didn't know, he said – but he had, and Archie knew well that Aldon could be charged with aiding and abetting in blood identity theft for it.

After that, Dawlish and the other Aurors took the lead on investigating Harry's disappearance and the imposter scheme, staying at Hogwarts for another four days. Each of Harry's friends had been questioned – some of them, like Edmund Rookwood and Theodore Nott were only questioned once. Others, like Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini had been questioned twice, but not for long; still others, closer friends like Parkinson and Malfoy, had not only been questioned twice, but for hours. The Weasleys had not come off easy – Fred, George, and Ron Weasley had all been held and questioned for most of a day, though fortunately with Percy having arrived so soon after the escape, no one consented to a Veritaserum interrogation and Dawlish didn't have enough evidence to enforce a Veritaserum warrant. In the end, Dawlish and the Aurors were forced to leave Hogwarts in a state of high dudgeon, without any arrests to show for it.

Aldon had related this all with a sort of sarcastic, vindictive pleasure – a job well done, Archie guessed, but it was a little unnerving nonetheless. Aldon himself had been questioned twice, at some length, but it seemed like he had had something of an alibi for the night of her disappearance, corroborated by other evidence, and there was no magical evidence pinning him to the escape.

"It helped that I wasn't considered to be in her circle of friends," Aldon had said, offhand, his lip curled slightly. "I was… more of an acquaintance, in truth. I am also legally a pureblood, and my family is in the SOW Party; I had no _apparent_ motive to help her."

That wouldn't be the case anymore, Archie realized with a slow breath out. As a publicly known halfblood, there was a good chance that his interrogations would be reviewed, or they could question him again. Unless Archie won this case, striking the laws entirely. He glanced over at Percy, who wore an expression of intense concentration as he scribbled on the legal pad in front of him.

The list of charges published in the Daily Prophet, the next day, was considerably longer than what Aldon had overheard. He had only heard about forty-odd counts, most of them fraud; the fifty-odd counts of Healing without a license had been new, as were the twelve trespassing charges, and killing an endangered species, namely, a basilisk.

All the feats that had made _Rigel Black_ famous and respected, like curing the Sleeping Sickness and slaying a basilisk, took on a completely different tone now that it was _Harry_ _Potter_, a halfblood, who had done them. According to the _Daily Prophet, _these accomplishments were improbable, impossible, suspect: Harry was _too_ powerful, her magic too dangerous, to be allowed near decent and respectable people. The Sleeping Sickness cure was now a _serious violation _of children's mental privacy; the death of the basilisk a _tragedy_. Combined with her demonstrated talents in the Triwizard Tournament, especially in the match against Durmstrang and the final, she was a threat to all of Wizarding Britain.

Harriett Potter was a threat and she had escaped, a dangerous fugitive. The Prophet published article after article, warning after warning. If seen, do not approach. If seen, call the Ministry of Magic DMLE hotline immediately. If seen, the Aurors would be on their way.

Harry's family, of course, had been placed under scrutiny. The Marauders had _raised_ the two of them, after all, and it had seemed simply impossible that they hadn't been involved in the ruse somehow.

Yet both Dad and Uncle James had consented to questioning under Veritaserum, which Dad firmly refused to talk about. They had known nothing, they had had nothing to do with it, and their Veritaserum-laced testimony didn't lie. Uncle Remus and Aunt Lily had each been held for questioning as well, most of a day for Aunt Lily and almost two days for Uncle Remus. Neither of them had consented to questioning under Veritaserum, and since Dad and Uncle James _had_ and had sworn that none of them had known, Dawlish didn't have enough to enforce a Veritaserum warrant.

Despite the testimony, Uncle James had been forced to resign from his position as Head Auror, and Aunt Lily's company had, under pressure from the Ministry who held most of its contracts, let her go. Not that, according to Dad, either of them cared – they had wanted to look for Harry, find her before the Ministry did, leading to the fiasco a few weeks ago in which Aunt Lily had cast the first Great Work of Magic in sixty years on British soil. Then they had fled the country, and it was Archie left in the crosshairs.

Auror Dawlish's testimony included all of that, but it was subtly warped. He hadn't gotten any cooperation for his investigation from the staff or students at Hogwarts but had persevered despite the odds. As Acting Head Auror, he had continued with the investigation, following leads into France, into America, but those governments had refused to recognize his authority and stopped him from going any farther. When he started implying that those who had refused Veritaserum examination were somehow complicit, Percy stood up, waiting for Justice to hold her hand up, stop the testimony, and look at him.

"Objection, Your Honour," he said, his voice calm and succinct, an almost bored expression on his face as Dawlish glared at him. "This is opinion evidence. Further, it is settled law that no adverse inference may be drawn against an accused's credibility by reason of his or her choice to exercise the right to refuse Veritaserum questioning."

Justice eyed him for a moment, expressionless, then glanced down at Lady Bones. "Is he correct in law?"

Lady Bones cleared her throat. "Very much so, Lady Justice."

"Very well." Justice settled back in her chair, eyes half-closing. "Prosecution, I did warn you yesterday about relevance. I have been listening to this testimony for near forty minutes at this point, and I am unable to understand why this history is relevant."

"I am getting to that, Your Honour," Umbridge said, her girlish voice breathy.

"Then get to it."

Auror Dawlish continued, only slightly back on track. He had seen Archie's interview in the _Daily Prophet_, in which Archie had confessed to all of the main facts of the ruse. He had met Archie at Terminal M on his landing from America. Archie had been surrounded by his halfblood and Muggleborn friends, who had nearly attacked the Aurors in his defence. Archie had been charged on the spot, of course, and had invoked his absolute right to silence, which was again suspect.

Percy stood up again, while Justice frowned. "No adverse inference again, counsellor?"

"That is correct, Your Honour. No adverse inference may be drawn from an accused's exercise of his right to silence. Also, relevance – if I may emphasize, Your Honour, my client and I do not disagree with the key facts of this case. Arcturus Rigel Black did indeed trade places with his cousin, Harriett Euphemia Potter, and he attended the American Institute of Magic while she, in turn, took his place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The issue is purely whether the law underlying the offence, being blood identity theft, is _just._"

Lady Justice turned to Umbridge, on the other side, who seemed slightly flummoxed while her junior, Clearwater, seemed to be suppressing a tiny smirk.

"Ah, my lady," Umbridge said, her voice fluttering a little in hesitation. "If Mr. Black admits all the underlying facts and elements of the offence, I submit that we should find him guilty of all charges. It would seem to be a waste of Your Honour's valuable time to hear anything further."

Justice watched her for a long moment. "You have no argument to make on the justice of the law itself?"

Umbridge seemed to be excited, almost, leaning forward against the podium. "It is not the role of this Court to determine whether the law is correct or not, only to rule whether or not it has been broken," she replied confidently and from the way she said it, Archie suspected it was a line drilled into her. Or that she drilled into others. Maybe both. "It is the role of the Wizengamot, and the Wizengamot _alone_, to decide what those laws should be."

"Is that so?" Justice opened her eyes wide, focusing on Umbridge. Archie sucked in a breath, and he could have sworn that half the court did the same. As light and languid as Justice's words had been, there was an underlying danger that Archie could almost taste in the air. He had no idea how Umbridge was missing it, especially after yesterday's broken legs. It felt like brewing storm, about to crack.

"Yes, my lady," Umbridge replied eagerly. The line had to have been well drilled into her, if she couldn't read the atmosphere. "That is correct. So, let us convict him and be done with it."

Justice stood, setting the point of her sword to the ground, placing both of her hands the hilt. Archie noticed that there was a stone in the pommel, one that seemed to be glowing with a subtle golden light. "Then let me be clear, Madam Umbridge. I am _Justice Incarnate_, and I do not and will not obey your Wizengamot's laws. I am judge, I am jury, and I am executioner, and I consider only what is _just_. If you are unable to defend your laws on the merits of _justice_, then _get_ _out_ of my courtroom. You have wasted enough of my time."

"I, Your Honour?" Umbridge seemed taken aback, her eyes widening. "But I—"

"_Out!" _Justice snapped, and made a quick gesture with her hand, so fast that Archie couldn't catch it. The light in the pommel of her sword flashed once, a bolt of lightning through the room, and Umbridge fell back, gasping for air, gripping her chest. Archie didn't know what was happening, but whatever it was, it was evidently painful and terrifying. Umbridge was whimpering, pulling her robes tight around her, her eyes tearing as she staggered for the doors, her breath ragged. She wasn't screaming, but Archie wondered if she should have been or wanted to be – it didn't sound like she had enough _air_ for screaming.

It took her far, far, too long to stagger out. Or maybe it was just that she had done so in absolute, perfect silence, the centre of attention. He watched as she stumbled past the bar separating the lawyers from the observers, as she tripped and fell halfway to the doors, an awful hiccoughing noise coming from her chest. He watched as she pulled herself upright, put one hand on the wall, as she collided with the doors with a heavy bang, only belatedly pushing the catch to fall outside. The courtroom doors closed behind her, a heavy, uncontrolled thud, sounding somehow _final_ in the silence.

Archie looked back up to the front. Justice's gaze was cool, intent, entirely impassive. She didn't care. Whatever had happened, it had hurt, it had been humiliating – and whatever it was inside Aldon's body didn't care.

"So." Justice's voice was bold, annoyed. Archie gulped. "Miss Clearwater."

"Your Honour." The blonde woman stood, making her way to the podium, a mild look of satisfaction on her face.

"You advised Madam Umbridge of our discussions yesterday, did you not?"

"I did, Your Honour," she said freely, with the sort of confidence that told Archie she was being fully and completely honest. "Madam Umbridge is my superior, however, and determined that we ought to stand by our planned strategy."

Archie blinked, replaying her words. There was so much packed in those two lines. Harry would have found fifteen subtexts or more – Archie only had two. Umbridge didn't listen to her. Clearwater did not like Umbridge.

"And you, Miss Clearwater?" Justice asked. "Are you prepared to proceed?"

Clearwater's gaze was calm, even if she was red-eyed from lack of sleep. "I am."

"Then we'll proceed. Your superior will not be returning – I have banned her from this courtroom while I sit with a minor curse. Should she attempt to return, her core will burn itself out inside her until she retreats. I do hope you will put on an admirable case for the prosecution – after lunch." She nodded at the clerks.

"All rise," one of them said, standing up. "Court to resume in an hour."

Archie rose, bowed with the rest of the room, and followed the long line of people exiting the court.

"That went… Well," Percy said, grimacing a little in distaste as soon as they were out in the courthouse atrium. By the change in his tone, Archie knew that he didn't mean it had gone well, just that he was changing the topic. "The afternoon should be more interesting; Clearwater must proceed with her examination of Dawlish today, as it is only in rare circumstances that she can call him back to the stand once he is dismissed. I must go and prepare. Please be back in the courtroom ten minutes before the start time." The barrister nodded at Archie, exchanged a quick look with Dad, and bustled off.

"Well," Dad said slowly, drawing the word out as he put one hand on Archie's shoulder. There really wasn't much more _to_ say about the morning. "I can't say I ever liked Prosecutor Umbridge, but that was… let's go find something to eat."

Their hour for lunch slipped away too quickly, but Archie didn't have much of an appetite anyway. He had had a decent breakfast, still his favourite meal of the day, and the bacon sandwiches that John had managed to rustle up were dry and tasted like sandpaper. Dad and Uncle Remus were talking quietly, comparing the morning's testimony with their own recollections, while Hermione was reviewing the notes she had taken. John had somehow managed to spill a part of his bacon sandwich onto his dress robes and Chess had one of her paper charms out, trying to get the grease stain out before it set. Archie just sat and listened.

He wondered where Harry was, how she was doing. He hadn't known that Leo had arranged for the papers for her to flee the country, but it made sense, and he was glad that Master Thompson, her old mentor from the Guild, had sent her on to some of his colleagues around the world. Hopefully one of them would take her on, and she would still be able to compete her Potions Mastery somewhere, even if it wasn't under Master Snape as she had always wanted. Harry, of course, hadn't told anyone her plans, and it was probably better that way.

From Archie's perspective, no news was good news. He wasn't an idiot – or, rather, while he might sometimes be an idiot, he did listen, he hoped, to the people around him. Hermione said that Archie was probably under heavy surveillance and that any mail he received would likely be read, which was why any other communications he was getting were being funnelled through Muggle telephone to Hermione's house, where she would take the message and bring it over. He had worried, some, that Harry was _trying _to get in touch with him through owl, even if it was just to tell him that she was fine, but Aldon had snorted and said that Harry was far too smart to send him an owl under the current circumstances. He would have to wait for something else, something creative and a little out of the ordinary, but Harry would find a way.

He hoped she did soon, though. It had been more than four weeks since he had heard from her, and despite himself, he was starting to worry. Just a little – Uncle Remus said she could take care of herself, and Archie even believed that no one was better at taking care of themselves than Harry, but it would still be good to _know_.

They were back in court well before the break ended, silently taking the same seats they had had in the morning. Justice was perched in her chair, her eyes a blur as she skimmed through a thick legal text, reading far faster than Archie though anyone could. Even Hermione didn't flip pages that quickly, and Hermione read _paragraphs_ the way that people read sentences. Percy was already there, making notes on a separate legal pad, and Clearwater came in soon after with the sort of expression on her face that made Archie suspect she had had more coffee, or a third Wideye Potion.

It was about fifteen minutes before Justice handed the book back to Lady Bones and nodded to the court clerks. "We may as well resume," she said mildly, much less stern that she had been this morning, and Archie's eyes widened a little in surprise. Over the past two days, the Incarnation had never been _mild_. "Miss Clearwater?"

"I am ready, Your Honour," the blonde woman said, her voice calm and deliberate despite the red rim of her eyes. "The prosecution would like to recall Auror Dawlish."

Justice inclined her head slightly, settling back into her wooden chair and half-closing her eyes. Her sword, glowing a little brighter than it had been this morning, was leaning against her chair, and her scales still sat in front of her, tilted slightly to the right.

There was a minute or two while Dawlish settled back into the witness box. This time, his expression was cautious, careful, as he waited for Clearwater's first question.

"Auror Dawlish, would you kindly outline your educational and professional history for this court?"

Dawlish blinked at her. "Er…"

Clearwater didn't move, she only stared at him pointedly, waiting for an answer.

"Er, I graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1971. I was in Slytherin House and was appointed prefect in my fifth year. After Hogwarts, I entered directly into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Auror training school, which lasts for eighteen months, then I became a Junior Auror in 1973. I was promoted to Senior Auror in 1979, then to Deputy Head Auror in 1992. I became Head Auror just six weeks ago."

"Would you explain what work you have done as an Auror through those years?"

Auror Dawlish, seemingly more bemused by the minute, launched into a description of the general duties of an Auror. Archie wasn't sure what the point of all this was, but Percy beside him had a serious expression on his face as he scribbled, almost verbatim, what Dawlish was saying. Lady Bones, too, had a look of interest on her face, and the court was utterly silent as Dawlish spoke. At times, Clearwater would raise her hand, redirecting Dawlish to one point or another, asking for clarification. It was long, but somehow still compelling – Clearwater was _good_ at what she did, and as Dawlish kept talking, he relaxed more. His testimony evened out, and he lost the edge of annoyance that he was carrying before. Archie didn't dare think that the annoyance had _disappeared, _but Clearwater certainly made him look more responsible, more impartial, more _credible_.

Junior Aurors worked under the supervision of Senior Aurors, and often spent some years "walking the beat", patrolling through wizarding areas monitoring for unrest. Dawlish had walked the beat in Diagon Alley for six months, then he had been transferred to Knockturn Alley for two years, then a region of the Alleys that he called the Cesspool for another five years. His years in the Cesspool were difficult – on an average night, he estimated that he had broken up a minimum of three fights. It was better when the Cesspool was active, because silence meant trouble. In the Cesspool, a night of silence meant that something, somewhere else was burning, and even the troublemakers knew to stay home and keep silent.

He had been promoted to the Major Investigations Unit in 1981, leaving the beat in favour of investigations. His specialty was vice – as Senior Auror, he had headed investigations into multiple illegal gambling rings and brothels. His biggest success, in 1988, had been successfully shutting down The Emerald Cauldron, a bar in the Lower Alleys that also had a backroom for high stakes, illegal gambling and a sideline in prostitution. His track record as a Senior Auror was excellent, closing on average a half-dozen major investigations per year.

As Deputy Head Auror, Dawlish had expanded beyond his expertise in vice and had provided oversight and advice to all areas of the DMLE, gaining expertise in homicides, domestic violence, and gangs in the process. In the matter of the disappeared, dangerous magical artifact, two years ago, Dawlish had been the one to lead the searches of the Lower Alleys, particularly the Cesspool, his old stomping grounds, while Lord Potter had taken care of the high-profile searches of Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and Godric's Hollow. As demonstrated by his career history, Dawlish was a successful Auror, who had never received a performance review less than "commendable", and he was well-respected by his peers.

"How about your academic history? You mentioned graduating from Hogwarts, and the Auror Training Academy. What additional training courses have you taken?"

Dawlish blinked, seemingly uncertain, but Clearwater just waited for the answers. Archie took a glance up Justice – she didn't seem to have moved in the past almost hour of testimony, and Percy hadn't stood up to object. Archie peeked at his notes, spotting circles here and there. _FRAUD _read one note, then _HIT EDUCATIONAL HISTORY HARD_. Another scribbled note with a circle: _CONFLICT?_

"Since the Auror Training Academy, I have done the mandatory retraining seminar every two years," Dawlish replied slowly. "Is that what you mean?"

"What is included the mandatory retraining seminar?" Clearwater sounded genuinely curious, though Archie would eat his non-existent hat if she was genuinely curious.

"Predominantly, the professional ethics and the duties of an Auror." Dawlish shrugged slightly.

"Anything else?"

"Er, sometimes there are also case law updates, if something has changed in the courts, or we can have speakers come and brief Aurors on emerging issues, such as the increase in crime in a particular area…?" Dawlish didn't seem like he knew how to respond to the question, and Archie saw the moment that Clearwater decided to let it go, turning back to Justice.

"Thank you, Dawlish. Your Honour, I am now seeking to have Auror Dawlish recognized as an expert witness by the court, to provide opinion evidence on the topic of crime rates, especially comparative crime rates in different areas and crime in the Lower Alleys. Auror Dawlish has a distinguished history as an Auror and has been a significant part of the Department of Magical Law enforcement for more than two decades. He has a particular expertise in crime in the Lower Alleys, though many years assigned to that district and through his work in the Major Investigations Unit."

Percy stood up sharply. "Ah, Madam Justice, before that determination can be made, the defense has an opportunity to cross-examine on the credentials of the proposed expert."

Justice moved her head slowly to eye him. There was a pause, then she nodded. "Proceed."

Percy traded places with Clearwater at the podium. "Auror Dawlish, you graduated from Hogwarts in 1971?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And you went immediately to the Auror Training Academy."

"Yes."

"You did not pursue any graduate studies?" Percy's voice was emotionless, as he fired the questions off, one by one. It was quick, and his questions only allowed for yes or no answers.

"I did not, no." Dawlish drew out the last word, frowning slightly.

"You didn't pursue any other training courses?"

"I pursued the training courses offered by the Auror Training Academy." Dawlish's frown deepened, and Archie could see him growing annoyed.

"You pursued the _mandatory_ training courses required of any Auror."

"I—"

"Please just answer the question, Auror Dawlish." Percy's voice was clipped, almost bored.

"Yes, I did."

"You didn't take any other courses, only the ones required of every Auror."

"Yes, but how is this relevant?"

Percy ignored the question. "You have no formal education besides Hogwarts, the Auror Training School, and the required refreshment course every two years at the Auror Training School."

"I—" Dawlish took a breath, letting it out slowly. "No, I don't."

"You have no special training in magical theory, or fraud, or anything else."

Clearwater stood up, on the other side of the room. "Objection, Your Honour. Relevance. The prosecution is seeking to accredit Auror Dawlish only on the issues of crime rates in various areas, particularly in the Lower Alleys."

Justice seemed to consider it for a moment, tilting her head. "Mr. Weasley, please keep your questions on point."

"Yes, Your Honour," Percy capitulated gracefully. "Auror Dawlish, you have no formal training on the assessment of crime rates."

"I have my lived experience." Dawlish's voice had taken a dangerous edge. "As an Auror."

"But no formal training."

"I suppose not, no, but crime rates are not really something that people study formally." Dawlish shrugged, and Archie heard a snort from behind him. He fought the urge to turn around to see Hermione's expression – he could picture her _oh, really, now_ expression perfectly. There was a small sound like a stifled laugh, which Archie was surprised to recognize was Chess. _No-Majs study everything_, he remembered Chess telling him years ago. Crime rates were probably a whole _field_ of study in the No-Maj world.

Percy seemed to accept that as an answer, however, and he moved on. "You are a pureblood, are you not?"

"Yes, of course I am."

"Non-noble."

"Most people are non-noble."

Clearwater stood up, and Justice glanced at her. "Objection. Relevance, again."

"Your Honour, Auror Dawlish's blood-status is relevant because the charges are fundamentally related to blood status." Percy's response was immediate, and even if he was addressing Justice, it felt like he was arguing directly with Clearwater. "An expert witness must be qualified and unbiased."

"Everyone has a blood status, your Honour," Clearwater replied, her voice hard. "Mr. Weasley is a pureblood. I am a pureblood. The accused is a pureblood. Blood status does not correlate with bias."

There was a pause. "Objection sustained. Move on, Mr. Weasley."

Percy paused, looking down at his notes. This time, when he started, his voice was slower, as if he was considering the question as he asked it. "You are a member of the SOW Party, Auror Dawlish?"

"In the sense that my family is generally supportive of the SOW Party, yes," Dawlish replied with a cool frown. "Many people are."

"And you are supportive of SOW Party policies." Percy's expression was stubborn.

"I am, but if you're trying to suggest that I did not conduct my investigation impartially or that I have been in any way biased in my testimony, you're wrong." Dawlish's tone was flat, cold. "My investigation was conducted in full accordance with the law."

Justice snorted, fully opening her eyes to look at him. "You lie. Do not lie before me, Auror. This is your first warning. Amend your statement."

There was a moment of silence, before Dawlish spoke again, his words slower, begrudging. "I may have stepped into some grey areas with respect to the investigation, but none of them have any bearing on the facts."

"Your Honour, if I may intercede," Clearwater leaned towards the podium. "Mr. Black has admitted the essential elements of the offence as written, and the sole issue is whether or not the blood discrimination laws are _just. _I am not relying on Auror Dawlish's investigation of this offence, and I am only seeking to rely on him for opinion evidence as it relates to crime rates and comparative crime rates, especially in the Lower Alleys. Regardless of what he might have done in this investigation, it does not affect his wealth of experience in the Alleys. And, as Auror Dawlish has testified, there is no formal education on these topics."

Archie heard the soft scoff from behind him again, just the one from Hermione this time.

"Any bias will affect opinion evidence even more strongly than the investigation itself," Percy snapped, expression hard. "I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honour, but I am opposed to having him qualified as an expert witness. He has no special training in this field and he has outright admitted that he is supportive of SOW Party policies and that he has _stepped into grey areas_ with respect to this investigation."

Justice seemed to consider it for a long moment, then she reached over and tapped the scales in front of her, which made a sharp ringing noise. "Fifteen minutes for the afternoon recess. I will read my determination afterwards."

Outside the courtroom, Archie lingered close to the wall, by the doors. There were crowds of people around the doors, so Percy had warned them against talking much, so mostly Archie was listening to Hermione grumble. She didn't think Dawlish should be accredited as an expert witness at all, confirming for him that criminology was _absolutely_ a topic studied by No-Majs, and that it would be ridiculous if he _was_ confirmed as an expert. Percy, however, seemed less sure.

"He's correct in that _wizards_ do not study crime in the same formal way that it seems Muggles do," he explained softly. "The bias argument went better than I expected, but I don't know. I also don't think there's any person more qualified in the wizarding world to give the evidence that Clearwater needs – she's starting to build an argument that the blood discrimination laws are justified based on risks posed by Muggleborns and halfbloods in society."

"That's completely _mad,_" Hermione hissed, face aghast. "How can – I don't even – what is she thinking, coming up with this?"

Percy studied Hermione for a moment. "It an adversarial system, and Clearwater is _doing_ _her_ _job_. She is not, in case you were wondering, a SOW Party supporter. She was a Ravenclaw in school and enjoys the craftsmanship in building an argument."

"Still," Hermione snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's despicable."

Percy shook his head. "If I were in her shoes, I would make the same argument. And, if we _are_ successful, Clearwater doing a good job works better for our interests than a poor argument. It's harder for the Ministry to disregard the results if she does a good job."

From the expression on her face, Hermione didn't agree. Archie privately agreed with her – how could someone stand up and argue for something they didn't believe in? He could see Percy's point, but with _Justice_ presiding, he wasn't sure how anyone could disregard the results anyway. Percy pulled out a pocket watch, checking the time, then motioned for them all to go back into the courtroom.

Justice had her head together with Lady Bones, who was speaking quickly, if quietly, her hands moving around in emphasis. The Incarnation, in Aldon's body, was nodding periodically – it was so odd, seeing her move in his friend's body. It was his face, his frame, but he was nothing more than a puppet – her _movements_ were nothing like his, the way that she spoke and the gestures she made were completely unfamiliar. It was, in a horrifying kind of way, the impression he wanted to leave with his acting.

It was another few minutes before Justice nodded, dismissing Lady Bones to her seat on the dais below. A quick glance around the room showed that everyone was back and seated. "Auror Dawlish, you may return to the witness stand, and remember that you remain under oath. Based on your long and excellent record as an Auror with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I am satisfied that you ought to be qualified as an expert witness for the purpose of testifying about crime in the Lower Alleys, particularly as it relates to comparative crime rates. I make this determination cognizant of the fact that you lack any formal training or academic study in this area, because there appears to be no formal training or studies in this area in this part of the world. I am also cognizant of the fact you may have a bias against the accused; I will consider that when weighing your evidence in my ultimate determinations. Miss Clearwater, you may begin your questions."

"Thank you, Your Honour," the prosecutor said gracefully, taking her position behind the podium, her lips curved in a small, satisfied smile. Percy let out a small noise of annoyance, but he had a pad of paper and pen at the ready. "Auror Dawlish, would you kindly take us through the different neighbourhoods of the Alleys, and the demographics of each?"

Dawlish nodded, and launched into an explanation of the various neighbourhoods in or around the Alleys, heading towards the area called the Lower Alleys. He started with Diagon Alley – the most prominent of the Alleys, the main shopping thoroughfare of Wizarding London and the wealthiest district, anchored on one end by Gringotts Bank and on the other by the Wizarding Courts of Law and the Wizengamot, with the entrance to Muggle London through the Leaky Cauldron in the middle. Diagon Alley was so prominent that for many, especially witches and wizards who did not reside in Wizarding London or the Alleys themselves, there simply were no other alleys. Few people lived directly in Diagon Alley – there are apartments above many of the shops, but many shopkeepers lived in the residential alleys elsewhere.

There was Knockturn Alley, the black-market district. By the standards of most witches and wizards of Wizarding Britain, Knockturn Alley was seedy, dangerous, but while it might not have had the pristine reputation of Diagon Alley, it was still very much a safe area, only steps off the main streets of Diagon Alley and running parallel to the Craftsmen's Alleys. Both Knockturn and Craftsmen's Alleys were the sort of areas where two different worlds blended together, the predominantly middle- and upper-classes of Diagon Alley blending with the lower middle classes and the working classes of the Lower Alleys. Like Diagon Alley, few people lived in either Knockturn or Craftsmen's, and it was primarily a commercial area.

The Lower Alleys was a collective name for one large area, which had many smaller neighbourhoods or districts, each of which had its own character. Unlike either Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley, the Lower Alleys were a mix of residential and commercial areas – every district had its own restaurants, cafés, or shops. Many people who worked in Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley lived in the Lower Alleys, and many areas of the Lower Alleys were very respectable.

The Unicorn, Flash, Highfields and Prettybone districts were very middle class, where their inhabitants often held jobs in major Wizarding enterprises such as the Ministry or Gringotts. Unicorn was the wealthiest, the nicest, followed by Highfields, Prettybone, and finally Flash. The people living in these districts were largely non-noble purebloods, without a long and distinguished history, who didn't have a traditional manor house. A permit through the Magical Lands Management division to set up a new wizarding home, with the required warding and inspections, was expensive, and the process was long; many witches and wizards chose to move into a home conveniently located in one of these districts, or in one of the other existing Wizarding communities such as Hogsmeade or Godric's Hollow.

The Patten and Market districts separated the middle-class residential neighbourhoods from the most impoverished areas. Patten and Market districts were considerably poorer than Unicorn, Flash, Highfields and Prettybone – there were fewer houses and townhomes, and more apartments. The people here were a mix; some known purebloods lived in this area, but not many. Most of the people in these areas were halfbloods. The Maywell Clinic was in the Market district, as was Aroma Alley. From the one trip he had taken into the Alleys, with Harry, Archie guessed that the Court of the Rogue was probably in the Market district as well.

Finally, there was the Cesspool. The Cesspool was what gave the rest of the Lower Alleys the reputation that it had – the Cesspool was dangerous, seedy, and it was rife with crime. As a Senior Auror in the Major Investigations Division, as well as the Deputy Head Auror, he had monitored the cases coming out of all areas of the Lower Alleys for many years; the Cesspool accounted for more than half of all violent crime. Patten and Market districts had more theft, blackmail, illegal gambling, money laundering, but it was the Cesspool where things were _violent. _The people who lived there were _magical,_ but almost none of them were purebloods; they were uneducated, not qualifying for education at Hogwarts and typically not attending school elsewhere. They didn't belong to polite society – their magic was wild, often uncontrolled.

Archie heard the snort behind him, and he didn't need to look behind him to be able to picture Hermione's face. It was probably a mirror of his own – how could anyone expect someone to be in control of their magic if they didn't qualify for an education at Hogwarts and weren't getting educated elsewhere? The skeptical expression probably wasn't helping him, though, so he smoothed it out.

Like before, Clearwater was _good_, her questions delicately redirecting Dawlish when it seemed that he was ready to start going on an unhelpful tangent, which Archie bet would have been something ridiculous or horrifically biased. She managed to make him come across as intelligent, educated, with a wealth of experience in the Lower Alleys – Dawlish was an Auror who had walked the beat, who had gotten to know the people around whom he had worked. He didn't miss how Clearwater let him mention the blood status demographics in most of the neighbourhoods, even if he wondered how accurate those statistics could possibly be. Unless he was _much_ mistaken, many people in the Alleys, especially in the Patten, Market and Cesspool, would be undocumented, and many people who were legally halfbloods were probably actually purebloods who couldn't prove their status. From Hermione, from the BIA, he knew that many actual halfbloods and newbloods, especially the ones educated abroad, simply chose to live in the Muggle world.

He wasn't the only one to pick up on Clearwater's train of argument. By now, by following her gestures, Dawlish had noticed, too.

"Can you draw for us any conclusions about the crime rates throughout the Lower Alleys, and the demographics of those areas?" Clearwater was expressionless, her voice merely curious, through Archie _swore_ he could feel Hermione stewing behind him. John would be stewing too, and it was probably worse for him since he could read the minds of the people around him – but one quick glance behind him showed him that John wasn't there. Chess, now sitting by herself, shook her head slightly and tilted her head towards the door, indicating that he had stepped out. Better stepping out than losing his temper, Archie guessed.

"Yes," Dawlish was replying when Archie turned back around. "Demographically, the areas with the most crime, both magical and non-magical, are areas that have the lowest proportion of purebloods. The effect is amplified when it comes to _violent_ crime, as there is the least violent crime where there are the most purebloods – in Highfields, Prettybone, Flash, and Unicorn districts."

Archie couldn't help but think if it might just be that people didn't _charge_ purebloods with violent offences, rather than the fact that they weren't committed. He remembered Geoff, in prison with him – no one had charged the person he had beaten up with abusing his sister, but _he_ had been charged. That wasn't accounted for, in these bogus statistics.

"In your opinion, what is the connection between crime and blood status?"

Archie _heard_ the pen, in Hermione's hand behind him, snap.

"In my opinion, halfbloods are less controlled in their magic, more likely to be dangerous. They don't have the control of generations bred into their magic, and their magic tends to act explosively," Dawlish said easily, totally and completely relaxed. "Even in other areas, where purebloods are committing crimes, they use formed spells, recognized spells like Stinging Hexes, the Whip Curse, the Killing Curse – in the Cesspool, it is far more common to see unformed magic involved in violent crime, suggesting it is outside the will of the user."

"Thank you. No further questions, Your Honour." Clearwater smiled slightly, then she turned to sit down at the prosecution table.

"Your witness, Mr. Weasley," Justice said, her eyes lazily flicking over at him. Archie couldn't tell what she was thinking from her expression, though she was tapping on finger on the pommel of her sword.

"Thank you, Your Honour," Percy replied, taking his position behind the podium, and Archie was struck by anew by now _polite _Court was. It seemed that Percy was always thanking someone for something. Even objections – Archie had always thought that those were big, dramatic, just like the trial scene in _The Crucible_, but instead both Percy and Clearwater had simply stood, waited to be acknowledged, then explained their objections with no raised voices. "Auror Dawlish, you stated that the Unicorn, Flash, Highfields and Prettybone districts were largely middle-class, pureblood neighbourhoods, is that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"They are also the wealthiest neighbourhoods in the Lower Alleys."

"Yes."

"And you explicitly said that the people in these neighbourhoods often hold jobs in major wizarding enterprises, like the Ministry and Gringotts Bank?"

"That's right."

"The Market, Patten, and Cesspool districts are considerably poorer, are they not?"

"I just said that, Mr. Weasley." Dawlish's voice was hard, almost skeptical, but Percy didn't react, simply moving onto his next question.

"You said that Market, Patten, and Cesspool district have a much smaller proportion of legal purebloods, is that right?"

"Yes – most of the inhabitants of these areas are halfbloods, I just said that."

"You'd agree with me, though, that practically speaking, there are many purebloods who are simply unable to prove their status, and who are legally registered as halfbloods?"

"I wouldn't say that – it's not difficult to prove, legal status." Dawlish frowned – disapproval, maybe, Archie guessed. "All you have to do is demonstrate four magic-using grandparents."

"Which relies on the person knowing their parentage, and in cases where grandparents are deceased, retaining the documentation to show they were magic-users, isn't that right?"

"Yes, but again, Weasley, this _is not a difficult standard_. Even in the cases of deceased grandparents, every witch or wizard leaves traces behind them, in the news, or in genealogical records." Dawlish crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. "If a person isn't able to prove their pureblood status, they are almost certainly a halfblood, in fact, not just in law."

"And if they don't know their parentage?"

"Everyone knows their parentage, Weasley."

There was a pregnant pause, and evidently Percy decided that this was a good moment to move on. "You recognize that halfbloods are barred from schooling at Hogwarts."

"Yes, that is rather the point of this trial, that a halfblood, with the assistance of _your client_, tricked her way into the school."

"So, you recognize that halfbloods effectively cannot attend school within Wizarding Britain, since the only school is Hogwarts." Percy's voice was calm, inexorable, a slow and steady march.

"There are homeschooling programs." Dawlish shrugged, uncaring. "We have hired a few graduates from homeschooling programs in the DMLE over the past few years – none of them are particularly good witches or wizards, they were hired largely on the sympathies of the former Head. As Head Auror, I won't be considering these candidates any longer; they're just not worth the expense of training."

Archie didn't know how to respond to that. Where did he even_ begin_ with that statement? It was more difficult for someone to do well in a homeschooling program than a school like Hogwarts, or AIM – they didn't have a qualified teacher in front of them, a Master of that field, to show them what they were doing wrong or to help. While some people did well on their own, many people did not, and it didn't say anything about what they _could_ do, if properly trained. Behind him, he heard the pause of Hermione's second pen, and he knew she was thinking the same thing.

"Aside from the homeschooling programs, the other legal option for halfbloods would be schooling abroad, is that right?"

"That's right. I understand some of the American schools offer scholarships for halfbloods and Muggleborns from Wizarding Britain." Dawlish looked away, apparently uninterested in the topic.

"You do not hire any of these candidates, do you?"

"Of course not." Dawlish seemed taken aback by the very idea. "The law doesn't allow the Ministry or enterprises in which the Ministry has a majority stake to hire persons educated outside the country."

"And those restrictions mean that job opportunities for those who aren't purebloods are _limited_, is that right?"

"I suppose if you want to be strictly accurate, yes," Dawlish replied, somewhat scathing. "But being unable to be hired in the Ministry or any enterprises in which the Ministry has a majority stake is hardly much of a limitation. There are many jobs in private companies, or places like Gringotts and St. Mungo's."

_Except for the chilling effect,_ Archie thought, and he was glad that hopefully, his interview was making the rounds of Wizarding America again. Practically speaking, few companies wanted to take risks when the political leadership was so clearly anti-Muggle-blood.

"But the fact _is_ that most of the other enterprises do not hire halfbloods or Muggleborns, isn't that right?"

"I can't answer that," Dawlish snapped waspishly. "Whether they do or not, that's not the Ministry's responsibility. Private enterprises will make the decisions that are in their best interests."

"But those best interests, in a climate where the Ministry has taken the lead in refusing to employ halfbloods and Muggleborns, leads them to avoid employing halfbloods and Muggleborns as well, isn't that right?"

"I'm not answering – I can't answer that, Weasley." Dawlish had bared his teeth, an attempt at a smile that was more like a grimace. "It is not in my area of _expertise_."

Percy nodded, letting the question go. "Going back to the Lower Alleys, Auror Dawlish, you noted that many of the people in the Cesspool in particular, who are legally halfbloods, aren't educated, is that right?"

"Yes, but that's not for lack of _opportunity_, Weasley, if that's what you're getting at. As I said, there are homeschooling programs, other schools around the world." Dawlish's voice had a hint of annoyance, of scorn, but Archie thought that Percy was doing great. He just hoped everyone else, especially Justice, could see the holes that his lawyer was poking into Dawlish's testimony.

"You'd agree that, without an education and with limited job opportunities, there are very few ways to make a living, wouldn't you?"

"I don't think the job opportunities _are_ limited, Weasley," Dawlish retorted, defensive. "I just said that."

"But without an education and with limited job opportunities, you would agree that there are few ways to make a living?"

Dawlish struggled for a moment – he _wanted_ to say no, but at the same time, saying no would make him sound ridiculous because the proposition was so reasonable. Percy stared him down, seemingly bored. "Just yes or no will be fine, Auror Dawlish."

"_If_ I accepted that there were fewer opportunities for education and limited job opportunities, I would agree, Weasley," Dawlish said finally. "I don't."

Percy took a look down at his parchment, then took another tack. "Of the pureblood neighbourhoods, you said that Unicorn was the wealthiest, then Highfields and Prettybone, then Flash, right?"

"Yes, I did."

"Would you agree that the crime rates in Flash are higher than that of Unicorn, and of the other two?"

Dawlish shifted in his chair, a little uncomfortable. "Only a little higher – not much."

"A little higher, you said. And Flash is lower than Market or Patten?"

"Yes, though Market and Patten are quite different." Dawlish frowned. "Flash is primarily residential, so the types of crime are personal in nature, whereas Market and Patten have significant commercial areas."

Percy grinned, teeth sharp. "So, you agree with me that there are other factors that blood-status? Whether the area is mainly residential or commercial, or wealth, for example?"

Dawlish paused, and his expression darkened as he realized the trap he had been caught in. He couldn't say that there weren't any other factors when he had just cited one. "Some other factors, I suppose."

"And you agreed that the crime rates in Flash, the poorest of the mainly pureblood neighbourhoods, is higher than that in Unicorn, the wealthiest one, yes?"

"Only by a little, I said." Dawlish scowled.

"Would you agree that this reasoning can be extended to lower-income areas in general, and that the _poverty_ of the area is a far more significant factor for the higher crime rates in than mere blood-status?"

Dawlish glared at him, struggling with his answer, but Archie didn't even think his answer mattered, anymore. Percy was building an _argument_ through his questions, and the ideas were already out there. Halfbloods, Muggleborns had fewer opportunities – the laws prevented them from getting a good education, then limited where they could work. They were poor, which pushed them into the cheaper, more run down, more dangerous areas of the Lower Alleys. The crime rates in these areas were high _because_ they were impoverished, and it had little to do with blood status. Especially because even the poorer pureblood areas had higher crime rates than wealthier ones, and whether someone was a _legal_ halfblood might not have anything to with their actual blood-status.

Percy's argument hung there, wispy in the air – he could see it, Hermione behind him could certainly see it, and he hoped Justice saw it.

"I would say that it's part of it," Dawlish replied eventually. "But not a _far more significant _factor than blood status."

Percy nodded, once, glancing towards Clearwater, who was studying the parchment in front of her, tapping it with her quill. "Those are all of my questions, Lady Justice, thank you."

"Miss Clearwater, any re-examination?"

There was a long pause, and there was absolute silence in the meantime. Clearwater didn't seem to notice, or maybe this decision was important enough that it needed the time for her to answer. It wasn't that long – maybe only two or three minutes, though it felt much longer – and then she stood up.

"No re-examination, Your Honour," she said, and beside him, Archie heard Percy breathe a small sigh of relief.

"Very well." Justice waved a hand, and a ghost image of a clock appeared in the air in front of her – a _Tempus_ spell. Archie hadn't been paying attention to the time, and he was surprised to read, through the other side of the spell, that it was past six in the evening. Lunchtime's bacon sandwiches, the ones that he had only nibbled on, felt a very long way away. "It is late. Court is adjourned for the day – I expect everyone to be here, ready to resume, at nine-thirty tomorrow morning."

Archie stood, joining the rest, bowed, and followed the line of people out of the courtroom.

XXX

Days passed, tumbling over each other in a hard, driving routine. Archie normally woke up at six-thirty, sometimes seven, rarely later – they nearly always had to be in court before nine-thirty, though on the off day, Justice would give them a break and hold off starting until ten in the morning. John was always in the kitchen when he came downstairs, sometimes talking to Dad and Uncle Remus, sometimes coaxing a sleepy-looking Chess into eating breakfast, sometimes skimming the paper with a disgusted expression on his face.

John and Chess didn't go with Archie after the second day. The trial was harder on John that Archie could have realized, and it was Chess who quietly pulled him and Dad aside.

"Would you mind terribly if John and I skipped tomorrow?" she said quietly, flicking her eyes over to John. "The courtroom – it's hard. It doesn't seem like Occlumency is a common skill here, so, um – today, he was fantasizing about strangling that Auror, and that's not like him. I told him to leave the courtroom before he lost it. Natural Legilimens have a one-in-four chance of insanity, so, um, if you can manage without us, I think it might be better if we didn't come, at least some days?"

Archie blinked at her, taken aback. "No, of course – I'm happy you came with me, the first few days, but I'll be fine. Dad's there, Hermione's there with me, Percy is there with me. You'll be here in the evening, too, you don't have to sit through the entire trial day to support me."

"I'll rework the Grimmauld Place wards to recognize your magical signatures, so you can come and go whenever you want," Dad added, nodding over the Evening Prophet, which was covering the trial in its slightly skewed way. "Though, if John had lost it and tried to strangle Dawlish, I'd have been right up there with him."

Chess giggled, a small, amused sound. "Can you help me fake sick tomorrow? It's just, you know John, he won't want to stay back unless there's a reason."

The next day, Dad slipped Chess a Puking Pastille, a new pranking product that was, shockingly, _not _one of the Marauders', so she threw up incessantly throughout breakfast.

"I think," she managed to get out between dry heaves in the first-floor toilets, having lost most of whatever was in her stomach in the half-hour before, John rubbing her back in worry. He had his wand out, but all his diagnostic charm was telling him was that she had a seriously upset stomach. "I should – just stay home."

"Alone?" Archie let his eyebrows shoot up, aghast. It was easy, faking worry for her – if Chess _had_ been throwing up like this, he _would_ be worried, so coming up with the necessary emotions were easy. "Not if you're throwing up like that – what if it gets worse?"

"Did you eat something weird?" John asked, frowning over the odd results of his diagnosis charm. "But all you ate was that croissant, and none of us are sick…"

"Maybe I—" she sighed, setting her head pathetically in her arms and shutting her eyes. It was a good look. "Tripped an old prank. Something."

"Anything's possible," Archie agreed, taking a step out of the tiny bathroom, which was already overfull with Chess slumped in front of the toilet and John kneeling beside her. "We, er, we do a lot of pranks here. I'm so sorry, Chess – I'll get you a stomach relief potion, but John, can you stay behind? Please? I'd feel better if you did."

John looked torn for a moment, but Chess started heaving again at that moment. Puking Pastilles did _not _look fun. "Yeah, all right," John said, putting his wand away in favour of helping Chess hold her hair back. "Chess, stomach relief potion, then bed, okay?"

She made a noise that Archie took as agreement, and he took off to fill a Potions vial with water, using the _Colouris_ charm to turn it the appropriate golden-yellow of a Stomach Relief Potion. He would slip her the other half of the Puking Pastille at the same time, and Chess would have a day of reading romance novels in bed, with John hovering helpfully nearby. And that would conveniently also keep John out of the courtroom, thereby saving his sanity.

John, being a Natural Legilimens with a special connection with Chess, figured it out within the day. Or maybe Chess hadn't even bothered to hide it, once Archie, Dad, and Uncle Remus were safely gone; certainly, when they came home that night, Chess and John had apparently gone out and come back with huge takeaway containers of Thai food that Archie had _immediately_ fallen in love with. Why had no one ever introduced him to the wonders of pad thai? He had eaten the entire platter of the tangy, delicious, orange-brown noodles, then he had to fight Dad for his fair share of the mango sticky rice with coconut sauce.

After that, John and Chess stayed home. They took care of the dinner arrangements, which was a huge relief, since Archie knew that Dad wouldn't be kept from court, not by hell or high water. With Uncle James and Aunt Lily gone (they had made it through France, and were searching through Italy now), and Uncle Remus beside Dad every day, no one was reliably taking care of dinner. Coming home to find _something_ on the table was the comfort that Archie never thought it would be.

Neither John nor Chess could cook, to Archie's knowledge, but Chess, it turned out, had a gift for finding the absolute best places to eat in No-Maj London, and John had a gift for sweet-talking even the restaurants that didn't normally do takeaway into letting them have it as takeaway. Through the two of them, Archie learned more about food than he had ever known before – AIM had shown him Southern American food, and there were burgers and milkshakes, but the town near AIM was small. Both John and Chess came from huge metropolitan cities, and Archie was quickly convinced that the two of them had eaten _everything._

There was Thai food that first night, with pad thai, pad sew, khao soi, Thai green curry with coconut, and mango sticky rice. There was Indian food another night, with butter chicken, lamb korma, palak paneer, aloo gobi, and a pork vindaloo so spicy that Archie had to run for the milk while Dad choked. Uncle Remus polished it off and asked for more, much to Chess' and John's amusement. There was takeaway Sichuan food the night after that, where Chess had thrown dandan noodles and mapo tofu at them all, which Archie didn't like because it made his mouth numb. He was then convinced, by the fact that Chess ate mapo tofu like it was food of the gods themselves, that this was Chess' own cuisine (it was _Chinese food_, after all), and she had had to correct his assumption by springing for what she called _proper Cantonese food_ another night: congee with century egg and lean pork (usually a breakfast food, she said), rice noodles that she called _mi ho fun_, chow mien studded with shrimps and scallops and squid, Cantonese fried rice, a platter of roast pork with a crunchy skin that Archie adored, a plate of egg tarts as dessert.

"And I haven't even taken you for dim sum yet," she complained, at the end of a very long dissertation on the reasons why, exactly, Cantonese food was superior to every other kind of cuisine in the world.

"Chess has a different personality at dim sum than she has anywhere else," John added, looking distinctly queasy. He had stuffed himself with a little bit of everything, and he was feeling it. "It's weird."

"I love dim sum," Chess said, flushing as John put the last egg tart in front of her. "And I think it might be the language. It's more, um, direct, I guess?"

There was a night where they had steaming bowls of Vietnamese pho, with the warm lemongrass scent lingering in the kitchen all evening afterwards, another night where John and Chess had managed to track down _Ethiopian _food, and Archie had to learn how to pick up pieces of meat (tibs, and kitfo, and gored-gored, served with ayibe cheese and vegetables) with the strange, soft injera bread. There was a night of kebabs and hummus and beef shawarma over warm, buttery rice, another night of tacos and tamales from Mexico, another night with tiny cheesy bread puffs from Brazil called pao de queijo and a _feijoada_ that sat heavily in his stomach. Archie had no idea where John and Chess were finding it all, but it was exciting, something to look forward to at the end of every long, exhausting, trial day.

Sometimes, later in the evenings, John would bring out his new guitar and show off the little he had managed to teach himself all summer. Archie didn't think he sounded half-bad, but John always waved it off, and Chess sometimes shot him a look when he missed notes, usually because they threw off her flow. If his guitar came out, then it was only a matter of time before Chess was on her feet, dancing, pulling someone up with her – Hermione, if she was still there, Archie, sometimes Dad would cut in too. The evenings, surrounded by his friends, his family, were a relief, especially after his nerves had been strung out on edge all day in trial.

Hermione always came back with them to review how the trial day had gone, joining them for dinner. In all honesty, Archie didn't really care for her evening analysis. He had already lived the trial day once, he didn't need to live it again, but she insisted. Sometimes (often), she would come up with things that Archie hadn't seen himself, so he made himself listen anyway, and with a sympathetic glance, she did try to keep it short. John and Chess always listened closely, exchanging glances, then Dad or Uncle Remus or one of them would change the topic to something lighter, something fun.

Weeks in, Hermione still never stayed the night, even if the nights became later and later and she sometimes had to run to catch the last train. Once or twice, she _missed_ the last train, but those days, Dad or Uncle Remus would Apparate her to Diagon Alley and make sure she got through the Floo. She always met them at the Wizarding Courts of Law, too, Flooing into Diagon Alley and walking the rest of the way. She told Archie that she was trying to stay inconspicuous in Wizarding Britain, but Archie privately thought that ship had probably sailed. She had been in the newspaper articles with him, standing beside him both in the article about his arrest, as well as the pictures that cropped up in the Daily Prophet a few times a week. She sat behind him every day in the row of seats reserved for his family members, and he had reached behind him for her hand, her support, more than once. Maybe the media hadn't picked up how close they were yet, with everything else going on, but it was just a matter of time.

Still, she also had liaising to do with the British International Association, and with the other people he had met over the Tournament, and that she could only do that from her house in Oxford. Archie didn't have a _telephone_, and when he asked Chess about one, she had said something about needing a _landline _and needing to be connected to the No-Maj telephone grid. Dad had shaken his head – Grimmauld Place had been cut off the No-Maj world long enough that reintegrating it would be challenging, not to mention probably in contravention of a few laws, so for instantaneous, private communications, which they could _guarantee_ weren't being monitored by the Ministry, Hermione was their best option.

He heard from Saoirse and Sean, in Ireland, that reports of his trial were making their way through the _Irish Gales_, and _not_ the Daily Prophet's skewed renditions. The Irish were paying attention, through Saoirse wasn't sure what to make of it yet. The Irish, according to her, had never taken well to the Ministry's rule, nor had they a significant noble class. They had always been a little distant from the centres of power, and it would take time for the Irish to decide how they felt about something or what to do about it.

As a newblood, Toby didn't have his finger on the heartbeat of Wizarding Scotland, but he had passed out the American Standard interviews through Hogsmeade. He was working on making contacts and building links with the wizarding population of Scotland but hadn't had much success yet. They would have preferred a halfblood, someone who was already part of the wizarding world and who had family connections within it, but there were no Scottish halfbloods known to the British International Association, it seemed. Even Scottish newbloods were scarce – like most British students trained abroad, very few had gone home, and the few that did still lived and worked in the No-Maj world.

In Britain itself, the BIA, including Hermione, Isran and Derrick, were hard at work distributing an alternate, more objective version of the trial. Hermione's notes were read over the phone to various people, then written up and distributed through their usual channels. Hermione was hearing, like in Scotland, an odd sort of _nothing_ from the population – everyone was watching the trial, waiting. Just waiting.

It felt a bit like a calm before a storm, one where Archie couldn't help but wonder if _he _was the storm. All of Wizarding Britain was watching him, and in some ways that was good. The profile was good, and it would be _great _if they could overturn the blood discrimination laws in one fell swoop.

But the silent attention was also unnerving, a little terrifying, exhausting and he was thankful for every moment of distraction his friends gave him.

He wasn't the only one showing the effects of the trial. Dad and Uncle Remus, who were there with him every day, looked pale and drawn Percy, too, was wearing down, though there was a blue fire to his eyes that seemed to burn brighter as the trial wore on. Clearwater had a similar look, and Archie suspected that both lawyers were drinking too much Wideye Potion and coffee as the days passed. Both of them had full trial days, then Archie guessed it was back to the office to prepare for the next day, a few hours of sleep, and then back to the courtroom. Lady Bones and the court staff had grown more comfortable over time, though all of them remained slightly on edge with Justice on the top dais.

Justice was the only one who looked the same, days of trial seemingly having no effect on her. Which was not to say that it had no effect on _Aldon_ – none of them knew much about long-term possession, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Aldon was becoming more haggard by day. Aside from his personal grooming falling by the wayside (Justice used magic to fix herself up each morning), his face was tired, paler, though Archie thought he had to be sleeping some fourteen or fifteen hours in a day. His robes, too, didn't hang quite right, though Archie was hard-pressed to tell why.

Chess said, based on her examination of the runes around the courtroom, that they were binding runes. Even once summoned and invited to share Aldon's body, Justice could not exercise her full powers outside the courtroom. That explanation made a great deal of sense; Aldon walked into court promptly on time each day, but he was a zombie until he hit the top dais, which was when Justice woke up, taking full control.

The day after Dawlish had testified, Clearwater started calling Harry's friends as witnesses. Their testimony against Harry was something that Archie had branded in his brain, forever.

The first ones up were Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, Harry's best friends, and their testimony was neither good nor bad, which was, in all honesty, better than he had expected from them.

"Can you tell us how you met Harriett Potter, whom you knew as Rigel Black?" Clearwater asked, her voice gently inquisitive.

"I was a first-year with her, in Slytherin," Malfoy had replied, his voice surly even as he glanced to people in the audience. His parents, if Archie had to guess. "I shared a dorm with her, we had all our classes together."

"Why did you become friends with her, though?"

There was a long pause, but Malfoy still answered. "My mother asked me to look for the Black Heir. To send reports on him to her."

It was a hit, there, and Archie knew it. Malfoy was never supposed to be friends with Harry – someone like Harry wasn't supposed to be good enough for him. Being friends with Malfoy was another _benefit_ that Harry had gotten by virtue of being Archie, and to hell with Archie's views on that.

"How you describe your relationship with her?"

Malfoy was silent again, and the words twisted out of his mouth. All of his answers were like that, Archie realized – unlike Dawlish, who had been happy to go on for hours with only a few pointed questions to guide him, all Malfoy wanted to do was answer the questions in the strictest, barest sense possible.

"She was my best friend. She _is_ one of my best friends," he replied. "She can be aggravating – so aggravating – but I would trust my life with her. I _have_ trusted my life to her. She is brilliant and powerful, and a credit to everyone who knows her, regardless of her blood-status."

"Anything else?"

"She has been a good friend to us. She is a good friend," Malfoy repeated, frowning. Archie didn't know what to think about this – if Malfoy truly considered her a good friend, why sell her out? Why do things to danger her?

"And how did you feel when the truth was revealed?"

Another long silence. "I was hurt," Malfoy said eventually. "Anyone would be hurt, that someone they were close to had kept a secret like that from them."

Percy's cross-examination of Malfoy was straightforward, almost dull.

"You were one of Harriett Potter's best friends?"

"I _am_ one of her best friends."

"You said she was a good friend to you?"

"Yes."

"She saved your life, in first year, didn't she?"

"That she did."

"And she saved the school in her second year, by taking care of the basilisk, is that right?"

"Absolutely."

"Would you say that your friendship with Harry Potter has harmed you in any way?"

"Not at all. On the contrary, I would be dead if not for her."

"Thank you, that will be enough." Percy sat down sharply, letting out a breath, while Archie tried to figure out the puzzle that was Draco Malfoy on the stand. He wished John had come with him, that day – John might have been able to read him, but John probably wouldn't have said much of what he learned, anyway. There was a moment where he and Malfoy stared at each other – Malfoy's mouth was a stubborn line, his grey eyes with the unique Malfoy sheen, much like the Black glitter. They were second cousins, Archie remembered, and Malfoy was probably one of his closest blood relations of their generation. But the gulf between them was enormous.

The moment passed, and Malfoy came off the stand, no re-examination needed.

Pansy Parkinson was more effusive, but her testimony was almost identical to Malfoy's. She met the person that she considered to be _Rigel Black_ on her very first night at Hogwarts, before they were even Sorted. She picked him out because he was staring at the enchanted ceiling at Hogwarts, as if he had never seen anything so wonderful. She had teased him, then when they had both been Sorted into Slytherin, she became close friends with him. She had known who he was, of course, to see him – there were only so many people he _could_ have been, but she would have befriended him no matter what. Pansy Parkinson was a _Parkinson_, and a well-connected one at that – she didn't need to befriend anyone she didn't want to, and her friendship was freely given, without a care for who Rigel Black or, as it turned out, Harry Potter might be.

She was also open with the difficult things, the frustrating things, giving a far more nuanced view of Harry Potter than Malfoy had. Harry was _difficult_. Harry shut people out – even if she was always there when one of them needed something, she barely ever relied on them, a fact that was only really understood when her secrets had come out. How could Harry have ever truly trusted them, when she was hiding a secret of that magnitude? But at the time, it had been hurtful, believing that Harry hadn't trusted them to help her when it counted.

It was that line that knocked Archie out of her frankly compelling testimony, frowning as he watched her. Parkinson and Malfoy _hadn't_ helped her, not when it counted. It was Aldon who had swept through, that final night, and broken the wards holding her. It was other people who had helped her flee the country.

It was Parkinson and Malfoy who tipped the Ministry off to Archie's mirror.

Whatever her testimony was, she wasn't Archie's friend. She wasn't Harry's friend – she was just someone who had been _Rigel Black's_ friend, and no matter how nuanced her testimony was in painting _Harry Potter_, all her good points and all her bad points, was, he couldn't forget that.

Her cross-examination was almost the same as Malfoy's. Yes, she was one of Harriett Potter's best friends. Harry was a good friend to her, to the extent that she could be when hiding something so important. Yes, Harry had cured the Sleeping Sickness, to which Pansy had also fallen ill, and she had defeated the basilisk terrorizing the school in second year. No, Pansy did not regret her friendship with Harry Potter at all, and if or when Harry returned, she would be first in line to welcome her home.

"Only one question," Clearwater said, standing up for her first re-examination for the trial. From the little that Percy had explained, the prosecution had the examinations-in-chief to get their case out, and Percy had the cross-examination. Only if Percy brought up new issues in the cross-examination would the prosecution do any re-examination, but from a legal perspective, re-examination tended to dilute a case, since it was so limited by focusing on weak points. "You said that she was a good friend, _to the extent that she could be_. What did you mean by that?"

Parkinson had a soft, almost wistful expression on her face. "I only mean that Harry Potter must have lived in a persistent atmosphere of fear. Finding out that she was not a pureblood explains so much – she worked so, so hard, all the time, always as if she had something to prove. And of course, she didn't share as much with us as we would have liked, of course she didn't trust us as much as we wanted. How could she have known how we would react, and how could she trust us, when the consequences were so severe? I only meant that, to the extent that she wasn't always a good friend, it is explained by her secret itself, and I certainly don't blame her for it."

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson," Clearwater said, and from the slightly sour expression on her face, Archie knew that whatever gamble she was trying with Parkinson had failed.

Hermione's analysis was that Clearwater had had no choice but to call Malfoy and Parkinson, since they were Harry's closest friends. Harry had been close enough to them to be invited to private family functions, she had been treated as a blood relative by the Malfoys themselves. There would have been questions if they had not been called, which would have been worse for her case than calling them and trying to wring what she could out of their testimony. Neither of them had been helpful for the prosecution, not really – both Parkinson and Malfoy had, in the face of multiple questions, from different angles, steadfastly denied that having Harry at school had threatened, endangered, or harmed them in any way.

She got a lot farther the next two days with Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. Archie had never liked Nott, of course, but he knew Harry did, and it was a struggle the entire next day to keep a tight hold on himself.

Archie was not the kind of person who dreamed about retribution. Archie dreamed about change, but revenge for things that had already happened seemed like a waste of time and energy that could be used to move on to different things. So, when Nott started testifying, Archie didn't want revenge – he only vowed to make sure that Harry met and befriended people in the future who would value her friendship far more than this complete and utter _arse_ of a person apparently did.

Theodore Nott was also her classmate, and he had been her friend. Like Malfoy and Parkinson, he talked about being put in Slytherin House with her, he talked about sharing a dorm with her and making friends with her through their shared classes, their shared dormitory and House.

Unlike Malfoy or Parkinson, he was disgusted by her. He was disgusted by her, by the scandal, by the fact that a halfblood had dared to share his school and common room and dorm for four years.

"How did finding out that Rigel Black was actually Harry Potter make you feel?" Clearwater asked, her gaze direct and fierce as she realized that she had a far better witness in Nott for her purposes than either Malfoy or Parkinson.

Nott was animated – his testimony wasn't Malfoy's short, stiff report, nor the Parkinson's gentle, thoughtful commentary. Nott was like Dawlish, happy to talk, happy to rant about the inequality of having to share a dorm with a halfblood. A _female_ halfblood.

"It was a huge shock – you can't imagine what a shock it was, Miss Clearwater," Nott said, smirking a little, while Archie ground his teeth. "You have to remember, I shared a _dormitory_ with her. I think that is the biggest thing – I slept in the same room as her, I _changed clothing_ in front of her, and there are things that are inappropriate for a well-born girl's ears, you know? I wouldn't have said some things around her if I had know it was _her_, and again – she saw me almost _naked_, and my modesty is very important to me—"

Justice snorted. "You lie. This is your first warning, witness."

Nott flushed. "Well, I wouldn't have nearly stripped in front of _Harriett Potter_," he amended quickly. "And she never removed her clothing in front of any of us, and it's such a, a _violation_ to think that she has been watching us, unclothed, all this time. I was fine being unclothed in front of Rigel Black, but not in front of Harriett Potter."

"Can you elaborate on that?" Clearwater asked, reaching for the glass of water beside her. "Why was it such a violation?"

Nott blinked. "Well, because she wasn't who we thought she was," he said. "She wasn't Rigel Black – she never was. She was Harriett Potter, a _halfblood_, a _girl_. So yeah, when I found out, I felt really violated, like she's been laughing at us behind our backs the entire time."

"Was it just that, the clothing in the dorms that distressed you? Or is there more?" Clearwater's gaze is steady, her voice calm in questioning.

"Er, well, finding out that Rigel Black was actually Harriett Potter really changed everything." Nott took a second to think, his clear eyes falling for a second, the smirk dropping as his face took on a more serious cast. His voice, too, changed – more thoughtful, hesitant, real. "It was just, a violation is the best way to put it. In first year, Rigel was in our _minds_. As Rigel, that's hard enough, but now that I know it was actually _Harriett Potter_, a halfblood, it's worse. Like my mental sanctity was invaded. And her magic – when I thought she was a Black, her magic was odd enough, but finding out that she was actually a halfblood all along, that just makes me shudder with fear at what could have happened to us. To any of us."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Okay, so, in first year, she threw Lee Jordan up against a wall, knocked him out – ow!" Nott grimaced, his face going pasty-white as he dug his fingers into the frame of the witness box.

"Half-truth, Mr. Nott." Justice's voice had a slight, amused tinge to it, and even if she had made no movement, Archie knew she had cast some sort of spell – a painful one. "You swore to tell the truth, the _whole_ truth and nothing but the truth."

Nott scowled. "Lee Jordan had attacked her. He had tried to maim her, so she threw him against a wall and knocked him out."

Justice's expression was impassive, but she inclined her head for him to continue, and his breathing evened out.

"And that was just in first year. In second year, she cast the _Depasco_ shield _all the time_ – she didn't seem to have any control of it, I personally witnessed her casting it twice in one Defense Against the Dark Arts class without meaning to. That shield eats everything it comes into contact with, you know? It was crazy dangerous, and she just had no control over it! Then, in third year, at Halloween, when the school was attacked by Acromantula and what have you, she _threw the House tables_ against the windows – I remember because I was in the way, and I had to duck, and it was terrifying. Later that year, she cast a Caterwauling Charm powerful enough to shatter half the glass in the castle! And that leaves out all the stuff she did in the Tournament. We could all have been seriously hurt or injured, and its only luck that we weren't." Nott took a deep breath, and he seemed be recovering. Justice wasn't interceding, so whatever he was saying had to be truthful enough not to be tripped by her lie detection.

He chanced a glance behind him – Hermione's head was down, scribbling in her notebook, but he looked past her, to Malfoy and Parkinson. They had all been friends, hadn't they? Malfoy, Parkinson, Bulstrode, Nott, Zabini. And Rigel Black, too.

Malfoy was staring at Nott, and his face promised retribution. Parkinson had one hand on his arm and was leaning over, whispering to him, her own expression chilly. Nott would be facing some consequences for this at school, Archie would bet on it.

"You mentioned the Tournament, Mr. Nott," Clearwater was saying, when he turned back around. "Can you elaborate?"

"She's a _free-dueller_," Nott replied, and the tone with which he said those words were infused with a combination of disgust, loathing and fear. "Did you see what she did in the final task, when that person freed her from the tombstone? She lunged at him and stabbed him in the gut – she probably killed him! The only good thing that came out of that night was that, since she was revealed, she won't be coming back to school with us. We're safe, finally."

A long pause, and Archie's hands were clenched into fists under the table. He _hated_ Nott – he had hated him before, granted, but this only solidified it.

Percy's cross-examination was a balm, but only slightly. It was longer than either of his cross-examinations for either Malfoy or Parkinson, and he hit hard.

"You change clothing often in front of your classmates, don't you?"

"Yes, of course, but that was because I thought I knew who they were."

"You've changed clothes in front of Miss Parkinson, haven't you?"

"Er—" Nott glanced up at Justice. "I suppose I have, once or twice."

"And in front of Miss Bulstrode, one of your other friends?"

"I – I don't remember."

"You're not a very modest person when it comes to clothing."

"I think I am – I only change in front of _certain_ people." Nott frowned, a little defensive. "I wouldn't have changed in front of _Harriett Potter_."

"Isn't it true that Black, or Harry Potter, was seen as being unusually modest?"

"Um," Nott said, and there was another glance at Justice. "I guess so?"

"Rigel Black, or Harry Potter, avoided looking at you when you took your clothes off."

A glance out to the audience, this time – probably at Malfoy and Parkinson. "Um, yeah, she did."

Percy glanced down at his pad of paper, flipping through to a separate page. There was barely a pause before he started on his second round of questioning, this time completely different. The change was sharp, disconcerting, and Archie hoped that Nott was reeling from it.

"Lee Jordan – you would agree, wouldn't you, that Harry Potter acted in self-defense?"

"Er, I mean – he attacked her, but she went overboard in her reaction."

"And you agree that she did cure the Sleeping Sickness."

"Yeah, I guess, but she _broke into our minds_."

"She cured _you_ from the Sleeping Sickness."

Nott squirmed. "Um, I guess so."

"And in second year, she saved the school from the basilisk."

"She _killed an endangered species!_" Nott's outburst would have been almost funny, if it wasn't for the situation. Of all the reworked stories that the Prophet had been pushing, the reimagination of her second year and saving the school from a basilisk was definitely the strangest. "She's a murderer!"

"And in third year, she threw the House tables against the windows to stop the Acromantulas from attacking the students in the Great Hall."

"I mean, _technically, _that was a side-effect—" Nott shut his mouth, stubborn.

"In the Tournament, you would agree that any actions in the final game were self-defense, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah but look at what she _did!_ She stabbed the person in the stomach, she might have _killed_ him – doesn't that count for anything?"

Percy didn't respond, instead just moving onto the next question. "You'd agree, wouldn't you, that she has never harmed anyone without being provoked?"

"I mean, err—yeah, but it's her _reaction_ to being provoked—"

"She has never _once_ harmed you directly, has she?"

"She saw me shirtless! She violated my mental privacy!"

Nott's answers didn't matter anymore, Archie knew. No matter what he said, Harry had never attacked him or hurt him in any way, and it sounded like Nott stripped pretty regularly in front of all their other friends anyway. Harry had never mentioned _this_ facet of his personality to Archie.

"Harry Potter never posed any threat or risk of harm to you." Percy's voice was final.

"Of course she did! I just explained all the things that she did, that she could have done!" Nott was slightly flushed, angry. "She broke into our minds, her magic was totally out of control – we're all much better off that she's gone!"

Percy stared at him for a moment, and Archie heard the sound of the courtroom door slamming shut behind him. He turned around – Malfoy and Parkinson had disappeared.

"No further questions, Your Honour."

Clearwater had no re-examination, so they moved onto Daphne Greengrass, whom Harry had mentioned maybe once or twice in the four years of the ruse. As far as Archie knew, she wasn't one of Harry's friends, and he had never met her before.

Greengrass had dark brown hair with brilliant blue eyes, which would have been pretty if her face hadn't been frozen in a rictus of cruel disgust. She shot Archie a look of pure spite, climbing into the witness box.

She hadn't been one of Harry's friends, and she didn't try to pretend like she was one. In some ways, that was worse.

"It explains so much – Rigel was always an attention-seeking brat," she snarled. "He, or I guess she, had this routine, where she would pretend she didn't want attention, but she always got caught up in everything anyway. She attacked a student in first-year—"

"First warning, witness." Justice voice was bored. She had been bored through most of Harry's friends acting as witnesses, though she had become slightly more animated through Nott's testimony – mostly, Archie hoped, because Nott had been lying.

"The _official_ story is that it was self-defense, but no one really knows, right?" Greengrass spread her hands in front of her, a skeptical expression on her face. "She was alone with Jordan when it happened, we only have her word for it. And then, in second year, the whole thing with the Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk? Harriett Potter was the only Parselmouth at Hogwarts. I wouldn't put it past her to have orchestrated the whole thing. And again, in third-year – everything was set up so that she was the centre of attention!"

"What is the relevance of this?" Justice aimed her question at Clearwater, though she didn't seem very impressed in any case. "Counsel, would you refocus your witness?"

"Yes, of course, Madam Justice." Clearwater turned back to Greengrass. "Miss Greengrass, could you explain how these events affected you?"

"I fell under the Sleeping Sickness, just like most of the school," Greengrass replied quickly. "And again, who is it that saved us from that? It was _Harriett Potter_, breaking into our heads. Maybe she orchestrated that, too. Then in second year, I wasn't directly attacked, but just being at school that year – it was terrifying. At the end, we weren't even allowed out of our common rooms, unless we were being monitored. Third year was better, but even then, the Halloween attack – we could have died, with the Acromantula attacking the castle. And yes, she did a lot to save us from that, but maybe she put us in danger in the first place."

It was utterly ridiculous, pure conjecture, and Clearwater's efforts to redirect her went nowhere. It was just enough to keep her from being cursed by Justice, Archie suspected, as Justice's face was slowly graven into a heavy frown. Clearwater finished that examination hastily, one eye on Justice, and Percy's cross-examination of Greengrass was short, to the point.

"You weren't friends with Rigel Black, or Harriett Potter, were you?"

"No, of course not."

"You barely knew her."

"I'm glad of it."

"You have no evidence that Harriett Potter or Rigel Black was behind any of the occurrences at school, do you?"

"She's a halfblood, and she always wanted attention." Greengrass shrugged. "And she was the only Parselmouth in school."

"But you've never found anything showing that she did anything except what she said she had done – cure the Sleeping Sickness, defeat the basilisk, save lives."

Greengrass scowled. "It's obvious, isn't it? That she was behind everything."

"Did it make you angry, then, that no one could see what you saw?" Percy's voice was casual, innocent, and Archie glanced over at him. That was a slightly different tack and tone than he had used before, and it was obvious he had something else planned.

"Yes..." Greengrass' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Of course, anyone would be annoyed. Everyone treated Black like he was some kind of _saint_, and he wasn't, and no one but me could see it."

"So, you tried to find other, stronger evidence connecting her to everything happening at school, right? You looked for other things to show people, to show that he wasn't a saint." Percy didn't do _ingratiating_ well; he was terrible at it, and Archie resolved to show him a better way to do that another time, or something.

"Yes, I did… " Greengrass' replied, her voice still slow and unsure.

"But you never found anything, other than what you've said."

She scowled at Percy fiercely, feeling the trap around her. She struggled for a minute, while Percy waited, but there really was no other response. "No, I didn't," she burst out, at the end. "Fuck you, Weasley—Argh!"

She gasped and keeled over in the witness box, her arms curling around her chest, going pale. Archie glanced upwards at Justice, who had one hand curled in a fist, apparently pulling on something in the air. "I will have no disrespect in my courtroom, Miss Greengrass – not against myself, not against the court staff, and not against counsel."

Greengrass whimpered, and tears were collecting in her eyes. "I'm—I'm sorry," she gasped, starting to shake.

"You're only sorry because you're in pain," Justice retorted coldly, and whatever the spell was, she didn't stop. "Mr. Weasley, any further questions?"

"None, Your Honour," Percy replied, his face wiped of all expression.

"Miss Clearwater?"

"Ah, no re-examination either, Your Honour."

"Very well." Justice released her fist, and Greengrass slumped forwards, gasping for air, her breath coming in small, short sobs. Justice eyed her, her lip curled in disgust. "Get out of my sight, and be grateful that I have not irreparably damaged your core."

The only good thing about Greengrass was that she was the last of Harry's classmates to testify. The next day, Clearwater called Master Christian Albright, a Master of Magical Theory working at the Alchemist's Guild. She had him qualified as an expert witness within the morning, and even Percy's vociferous prying of his education and skills only yielded the concession that he had been working in Alchemy for the last two decades rather than pure magical theory. It wasn't good, and neither was his testimony.

It was everything Clearwater had been building up to, dressed up in dry, academic language with a veneer of professionalism: Muggleborns and halfbloods were, in truth, more dangerous than purebloods. Their magic tended to wild magic, more unpredictable and difficult to control, but was tamed through successive generations – four, according to Archibald's Theory of Increasing Organization. Because Muggleborns and halfbloods had _wild _magic instead of _tamed_ magic, they were always at risk of losing control of their magic, of hurting others, regardless of their intentions.

The blood discrimination laws were a legitimate means of protecting the rest of the population from the risks posed by purebloods. People who knew the blood status of the people they surrounded themselves with could take precautions to manage those risks, they could choose whether or not it was a risk they were willing to take, but the same could not be said if people fraudulently held themselves out to be purebloods. Magic itself did not lie – a Muggleborn had wild magic, and a pureblood did not. The Ministry had an _obligation_ to put forward laws on blood identity theft, in the interest of the public. It would be very difficult, harmful, even, to the public, if people could wantonly lie about their blood status with no consequences whatsoever.

Moreover, it wasn't only the blood identity theft laws that were justified. Given the dangers posed by Muggleborns and halfbloods, the employment laws, even the exclusion policy at Hogwarts, were all justified. Ministry witches and wizards, who had a position of authority and responsibility with respect to the rest of the wizarding population, _needed_ to be in control of their magic, and no exceptions could or should be made. There was no room for error when, for example, the person was an Auror, or if they worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Further, Hogwarts, where there were so many children, was already an inherently uncontrolled environment – the risks posed by adding halfbloods and Muggleborns were simply too much, too dangerous for the pureblood population to consider.

There were so many examples against everything he had said, but Master Albright made everything sound so _reasonable_. What about Tonks, Archie wanted to ask – his second cousin Nymphadora Tonks, whom Harry had had the fortune to meet but not him, who was a halfblood and a Junior Auror right now. What about Mad-Eye Moody, the famous retired Auror and known halfblood Duelling expert? What about the _eight hundred years_ over which Hogwarts had accepted Muggleborns and halfbloods? What about every school in America? And anyway, how did all of that work with the fact that the laws forbade anyone educated _outside of Britain_ from taking these jobs, not just Muggleborns and halfbloods?

But it was dressed up so nicely, with big words and phrases like _Archibald's Theory of Increasing Organization_, and the Daily Prophet was all over it. Hermione broke two pens writing her notes about his testimony. Two pens, and she stabbed fourteen holes in her notebook paper by pressing too hard, and one of her pens spilled ink all over her hand and suit jacket.

Archie tried to comfort himself by looking up at Justice's face, every so often. Unfortunately, her face gave no sign of what she was thinking, though occasionally she got an odd, almost amused, look on her face when Master Albright said something or other about the nature of magic. She didn't interfere, however, which gave Archie a deep sense of foreboding.

He hoped Percy would take him apart on cross-examination, as he did in most of the other witnesses, but even that was troubling. Master Albright came out better than any of the prosecution's other witnesses, and he had an answer for every question that Percy threw at him. No, he hadn't worked in Magical Theory proper more than two decades, but most of his work was at the interface of Magical Theory and Alchemy. He still had a Mastery in Magical Theory, and he had published papers, on average once a year, in noted journals in both Magical Theory and Alchemy. He recognized the papers that Percy threw at him, acknowledging the main papers in the field, but they didn't outright contradict him – Muggleborns and halfbloods really _did_ have wild magic.

The best that Percy got out of him was an acknowledgement that most magical theorists didn't agree with him on the issue of the _dangers posed_ by halfbloods and Muggleborns. However, Master Albright considered that to be more of a question of the risk that a society was willing to take – Muggleborns and halfbloods had wild magic, that much theorists knew, and even if most theorists didn't think it made Muggleborns and halfbloods more dangerous, he and a minority of theorists disagreed. And if a society decided to be risk-averse and legislated based on those concerns, they were entitled to do so.

Leaving the court, after that, felt like failure – a terrifying, soul-sucking failure, where Archie had put himself, _all_ of himself, on the line, and for maybe the first time since the trial started, Archie felt a firm, gut-wrenching _fear _grabbing hold, writhing in his belly.

It wasn't that he hadn't, intellectually, thought through the risks before. He had considered it, especially once the Justice had come out and said the only sentences she handed down were life, soul, and magic. He had thought about them then, and to him, the risks were worth it – it wasn't as if he would have gotten much better by going with a regular trial, he had reasoned, not when they were looking at Azkaban. Some people could survive Azkaban, he was sure, but Archie knew that he was not one of them. Archie wasn't strong, not like that.

He could have taken a guilty plea, paid a fine of some sort, but even now, some part of him recoiled at the thought. He didn't think what he did was wrong – and, more than that, the laws _were_ wrong. Pleading out was like giving up, like bending over, and Archie would not bow.

No halfblood or Muggleborn would have been given the same opportunity, and Archie would not be the one who used his privilege, his blood, to take the easy way out. He would go down fighting, because this was what was _right_, because doing anything else when he had this chance, this _opportunity_ to strike the laws, was just cowardice.

There was always a choice, and some of them were harder than others. This was one of those choices, and halfway through, even when things didn't look as bright as they did a week and a half ago, even if he was afraid, even if he was bloody fucking terrified, Archie didn't regret making this choice. It was the right one, even as he begged Hermione to stay at Grimmauld Place with him, even when he had taken to snuggling between John and Chess on the sofa every evening, even when he had, for the first time since he was eight, somewhat embarrassedly crawled into Dad's bed to sleep so that he wouldn't be alone. Harry would have been his first choice, but with her out of the country, it was Dad he turned to next.

The only things he would regret, if this were the end, would be that he hadn't gotten any farther with it, and someone else would have to take the torch. He reminded himself, often, of Enjolras, whom he had played so long ago – Enjolras believed in his cause, and maybe Archie, like Harry, would only be a spark in a later conflagration. If Archie could make progress, _any _progress, it would have been worth it, but he still wished he had more. More life – more Hermione, more love. More time with his family, with Dad, with Harry and Uncle James and Uncle Remus and Aunt Lily. More time with his friends, not just John and Chess but Neal, Kel, and Daine. Evin, Zahir, and Thea, from theatre troupe. Derrick, Isran, Toby, Saiorse, and Sean, from the Tournament. More theatre, more movies, more books.

_Let others rise to take our place, until the earth is free. _He hummed the phrase to himself, walking out of the courtroom after close to two days of Albright's expert testimony, and he felt Hermione take his hand beside him.

"We haven't lost yet, Archie," Percy said. The barrister wore a small, shark-like smile, and patted him gently on the shoulder. "Don't give up so quickly. Tomorrow, we start _our_ case."

XXX

_ROSIER INVESTMENT TRUST SPLITS_

_In a morning press conference, Lord Evan Rosier announced that the New Developments Division will be splitting off from the Rosier Investment Trust under the leadership of its long-time director, Miss Christina Blake. The New Developments Division was responsible for investigating proposed new wizarding technologies and funding hopeful new inventors._

"_It is with regret and much encouragement that we see Director Blake and her Division into its new chapter of life," Lord Rosier is recorded saying. "Under her leadership, the Rosier Investment Trust made significant investments in new wizarding technologies, particularly the Firebolt, the newest version of Omnioculars, and advancements in light-spell technology. We wish Director Blake and her dedicated group of associates all the best for the future, as the newly founded firm Blake and Associates."_

_The division of the Rosier Investment Trust comes at a significant cost. Director Blake takes with her the profits of any invention funded through her Division within the last five years, which includes the lucrative Firebolt investment, as well as a non-competition clause wherein the Rosier Investment Trust has resolved not to invest in new wizarding technologies and to refer any such inquiries to Blake and Associates. In return, the Rosier Investment Trust maintains a forty percent stake in the newfound company. _

"_I am both sorry and excited to open Blake and Associates," Miss Blake is recorded saying. "The Rosier Investment Trust has been a generous and supportive partner and a veritable incubator for new ideas for decades, and I am sad to leave. However, it is time for a change, and with the continuing interest from our latest technologies, which have accounted for more than forty percent of the Trust's profits in the last five years, this is a good time for a move I have long been considering."_

_Neither Lord Rosier nor Miss Blake made any reference to their recently revealed past relationship, nor to their son, the former Rosier Heir, now known as Aldon Blake. In response to questions, Lord Rosier only stated that it was a chapter of his life that he had closed and wished to leave behind, while Miss Blake simply said that she was looking forward to cultivating a relationship with her son. _

Lina snorted, folding the _Daily Prophet_ and tossing it aside on her desk. It wasn't big enough news to make the first page, considering the Arcturus Rigel Black trial, but it should have been. The ramifications of Wizarding Britain's largest investment and venture capitalism firm splitting were far more important than the outcome of any trial, even one where the Incarnation of Justice had foolishly been summoned, especially when the split itself was so unequal in the benefits that the newly formed Blake and Associates would receive. Blake and Associates would walk with, essentially, the full Rosier Investment Trust book of business as it related to new wizarding technologies, as well as a non-competition clause. A forty-percent interest in that company was promising, but _not_, Lina thought, a fair trade.

It was almost like a present that a lover would give. Lina smiled, darkly amused. Here, have half my company, no strings attached! Even surrounded by the warm and congratulatory business nonsense, it was still there for anyone to see if they just _looked_. Then again, they had had a child together, then worked together afterwards for another two decades; could she really have expected anything else?

Well, that didn't affect her, she thought dismissively, standing up. She had bigger problems than two idiots who were still apparently, against all common sense and in the face of the wild scandal swirling around them, ridiculously in love. She walked over to the whiteboard across from her, picking up a blue dry-erase marker.

The whiteboard showed an assault plan for a wealthy wizarding family's manor in northern Russia, but she wiped it with one casual wave of her wand, the command _erasere_ flicking through her mind. Things were changing at home, that much was clear. Between the trial of Arcturus Rigel Black, the Aldon Blake scandal, and the outcome of the Triwizard Tournament, the political winds were shifting, and perhaps it was time to turn her mind to a problem that she had never bothered with before. Not that anyone was paying her for her thoughts right now, but it was an interesting problem, and one never knew. Her silver ring, heavy, weighed down her left hand, and she was always, always conscious of the tattoos running down her spine.

Duty. Tolerance. Caution.

She wrote the words _Wizarding Britain_ across the top of her whiteboard, leaned back against her desk, and started thinking.

XXX

_ANs: And this is a chapter which was probably only interesting to the lawyers among you. No wonder legal thrillers never sound like real trials. In terms of weird legal humour in here, Umbridge is an awful lawyer - never, ever tell a judge "I'm getting to it". If they asked, they want to know, and they want to know now. As for Clearwater, Archie and Hermione don't like her (both of them are far too righteous), but Percy has the right of it - it's an adversarial system, she's just doing her job, and her doing her job and putting the best case forward is best for everyone, even if she privately disagrees with everything she's arguing. Ohh, and last legal fun thing - judges are always nicer after lunch, because before lunch they're tired, cranky, and hungry. Justice is milder after lunch because someone got her lunch. Thanks always to beta-reader meek_bookworm (who still swears trial is not boring, though I am skeptical), and to the legal subject matter experts: SHP, JAP and REW._

_Next Chapter: Don't you remember when you were young / And you wanted to set the world on fire? / Somewhere deep down, I know you do / And don't you remember when we were young / And we wanted to set the world on fire? / 'Cause I still am, and I still do (Architects, by Rise Against)_


	5. Chapter 5

The note found its way into his pocket, but Archie had no idea when it had appeared there. It had to have been last night, or maybe even the night before – he didn't own more than one suit, so he was in the same suit, day in and day out. He didn't _remember _the note being in his pocket when he took it off last night, always the first thing he did when he got home, but after that it had just sat in his closet all night, so it had to have been there. And if it was there and he hadn't noticed it last night, it was possible it had been there for days, maybe even a week.

Still, whenever he found it, it had to have been some time since Harry had written it. He recognized her writing, and a slow smile spread across his face as he opened it.

_Archie,_

_Don't worry, I'm fine! Really – I know that's a bit of a joke between us, now, but I'm really fine, I promise._

_I can't tell you much about what I'm doing, in case this falls in the wrong hands, but I've been travelling a lot. There are plenty of new potions ingredients for me to experiment with – or, not new ones, but the kind of ingredients that I could only get dried in Britain, which are fresh here. The drying process really changes the ingredient's properties, which is fascinating, so I've been taking notes on it and maybe I'll write a paper on it, one day. I would tell you more but telling you would give you too many clues as my location, so… sorry about that._

_I wish you could write me back. I have a friend delivering this for me, but by the time you receive it, I probably will have moved on. Hope you're all right – I don't like the news I'm hearing out of Britain right now, so I hope you know what you're doing._

_Love,_

_Harry_

She was fine. Harry was doing fine, and her letter sounded so much _better_ than all her letters from Hogwarts had ever sounded. It was the lack of anything awful happening, Archie thought. For once in her life, since she had started school, no one was trying to kill her and she wasn't worried about people discovering her, discovering her secret. Instead, this was Harry as he remembered her – fascinated with Potions, an academic at heart.

He folded the letter up, tucking it in his pocket, and bounded downstairs with a broad grin on his face. It was his first day of testimony today, and he had to be a thousand percent _on_. Finding Harry's letter today felt like a sign, a wish of good luck from the universe, and he would put a good face on everything.

"You look happy," Dad said, eyebrow raised as Archie walked back into the kitchen. Dad was already in his dress robes, with a mug of coffee in hand, deep shadows under his eyes. John and Chess were both seated at the kitchen table, breakfast in front of them, still in their sleeping clothes – sweatpants and a t-shirt for John, a ruffled nightgown decorated with teddy bears for Chess. Uncle Remus was there too, leaning against the counter, a glass of juice in hand.

"Letter from Harry." Archie pulled it out of pocket and passed it to Dad. "She sounds good! I found it in my pocket this morning – no idea how it got there."

Probably one of her connections through the King of Thieves, Archie belatedly realized. He was a little embarrassed not to have noticed someone slipping something in his pocket, but Leo probably knew a few master pickpockets. It couldn't be much different, slipping something in his pocket or lifting a purse.

Dad skimmed the letter quickly, a small smile lighting up his face, then passed the letter to Uncle Remus. "That's good – I'll mention it to James, in our Two-Way mirror. Are you ready for your first day of testimony?"

Archie shrugged, accepting the letter back from Uncle Remus, folding it back up to slide in his pocket. It would be his good luck charm for the day. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"You got this, Arch." John looked up from his omelette. "This is just like the interview, just more so. Remember you have to be honest – when it comes to actual lie detection, Justice is only a better version of your run-of-the-mill Truth-Speaker. She'll be able to pick up lies, half-truths, lies of omission, and she's probably better than Aldon is at sussing out the meaning between the lies, but she still can't read objective truth. If you deeply, genuinely believe what you're saying, you won't be picked up, all right?"

"Yeah." Archie took a deep breath. "Percy's prepared me, and you all have, too. I'll be fine."

"What are you thinking, for food tonight?" Chess leaned forwards, encouraging. "Whatever you want, Archie. Greek? Italian? Northern Chinese? Filipino? Peruvian?"

"Whatever you pick will be great," Archie replied. "I don't really know what any of those are."

"Souvlaki, gyros and moussaka it is, then." Chess smiled, standing up to take her plate to the sink. "Good luck, Archie. I know you'll be amazing."

"Thanks," Archie grinned. "I'm sure it'll be delicious."

Almost two weeks into the trial, the courtroom had emptied out. Archie was, of course, there every day, with Hermione, Dad and Uncle Remus. There were a few reporters – someone from the _Daily_ _Prophet_ for sure, but Archie wasn't sure about the rest. Someone from the _Irish Gales_, probably, maybe someone from one of the big American papers, either the _American Standard _or the _New York Ghost_. But most of the others were gone; most of Harry's friends had disappeared after the first day, as had the most prominent nobles, including Lord Dumbledore. Malfoy and Parkinson had kept coming, though their parents had only come on the days they took the stand, but even the two of them had disappeared after Nott's testimony.

Archie wouldn't have minded having more of an audience – it would have helped put him in the frame of mind for a performance, which was partially what giving testimony would be. But in some ways, it was better than the courtroom was mostly empty, because as much as it was a performance, it also wasn't one. This wasn't a show, it wasn't even a spun interview – Archie had to be thoroughly honest, completely genuine today, and he had to put the best food forward on why the laws were unfair, why they should be struck.

_If you don't believe in yourself, no one will,_ he reminded himself, standing when Percy finally called him to the stand, Archie took his time, standing up and smoothing his No-Maj jacket, feeling Harry's letter crinkle in his pocket. He walked towards the witness box, taking long, smooth steps that he knew would read as confidence to the Court, to the reporters, to his family still watching him. He would be strong, and when he sat down, quietly taking the usual oath to _tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth_, he looked out at the empty courtroom.

Hermione was watching him, and she gave him a small, worried smile.

"Would you please introduce yourself to the Court?"

Archie nodded, and he kept his voice slower than usual, more thoughtful. Just like the interview, he needed to be likeable, but they didn't think his usual excitability played as well with a large audience, not for someone they needed to be a leader. "My name is Arcturus Rigel Black, though my friends and my family call me Archie, or Arch. I was born August 3, 1980, and I am currently a fifth-year at the American Institute for Magic. I am in the Healing program, where my concentration is Infectious Disease, with a secondary focus in No-Maj – Muggle – medicine."

"Can you tell us about your family?"

"My father is Sirius Orion Black, and my mother is Diana Anastasia Black, née Fawley," Archie replied, his voice smooth, without any pauses. These were the easy questions, that left an impression of who he was on the Court, on the audience. He would be calm, he would be confident, he would be likeable and understandable and _relatable_. "My father, the Lord Black, was an Auror, but he retired when my mother became ill. My mother passed away on February 21, 1989. Aside from my mother and father, I grew up with father's closest school friends: Remus John Lupin and James Fleamont Potter. My Uncle James married my aunt Lily – Lillian Jennifer Potter, née Evans. And there is my cousin, Harry Potter, Harriett Euphemia Potter." He paused. "She always hated her middle name."

"Would you tell us a little about your childhood?"

Archie nodded. "I would say I had a very happy childhood, for the most part," he started with a small sigh, leaning forward in his seat. "I grew up with the three founders of the Marauders brand of pranking products, so pranking and jokes were second nature to Harry and I. Harry and I grew up together – she was born only four days before me, on July 31, 1980, so I don't remember a time when I didn't have Harry around me. We saw each other every day, or almost every day – our parents cared for us together, as a unit. I think our childhoods were very normal, for wizarding children. My Aunt Lily was the one who taught the two of us how to read, how to write, our arithmetic. My Uncle Remus looked after us during the day, when our parents were working, he was very encouraging of all our interests – when my cousin Harry became interested in Potions, it was my Uncle Remus who gave her her first potions kit, then who helped her get the more advanced textbooks and journals that she wanted. My Uncle James taught us how to fly, and my Dad taught us about pranks, walked us through a lot of the techniques and guided us on making our own pranks that, you know, he would then let us spring on him because we were children. We were very fortunate, to grow up in a loving and close family."

"You said _for the most part_," Percy replied, looking down at his notes. "Can you elaborate?"

"My mother passed away," Archie said baldly, looking away. He didn't cry – not to say that he couldn't, but now, thinking about Mum made him as angry as it made him sad, so crying would have been a lie. There was a brief pause, and he took the time to pour himself a glass of water on the stand, gathering his thoughts. "My mother first became ill when I was six, and she passed away when I was eight. That is… I would say that is the most defining part of my life, before I started school. Aside from my mother passing away, I think that I had the same kinds of problems that every child has, especially children with siblings. For example, Harry had a phase where she would steal my clothing because she found them more comfortable and leave me wearing her dresses. I didn't like it, but our mothers thought it was adorable, so…" He shrugged. "Living with anyone, there are always things that happen, here or there, but they don't impact your experience as a whole."

Percy nodded, understanding. He had five brothers and a sister, including two very rambunctious twin brothers. If there was anyone who understood the impact of siblings, it was Percy Weasley. "Can you tell us more about your relationship with Harry Potter?"

"Harry is my sister, in every way that matters." Archie smiled – not a bright smile, more of a nostalgic one. "Almost my twin – sometimes I think of her as my _twin_ sister, because we even used to look the same. And aside from being my sister, she and I – well, with the Split, we rarely met any other children of our age. Until I went to school, Harry was my only friend, my _best _friend, and a huge part of my world. We saw each other every day, our families cared for us together, we had sleepovers half the week – we pretty much lived together. Harry was beside me when Mum was sick, Harry was the one who held my hand through the funeral and the burial, she was the one who checked in on me afterwards, who sometimes, if she was there, held me when I cried. We learned to read together, we were part of the same junior Quidditch Leagues, we played pranks with each other and against each other. She taught me Potions, just as I taught her Healing. She was – well, there's just no describing my childhood without her, she was so prevalent throughout all of it. I don't know how to put it, other than – she is my sister."

"Can you tell us more about Harry, about her interests, what she was like?"

Archie laughed, a soft laugh, almost a little surprised, confused. He was glad that he couldn't see Justice from his vantage point, not without craning his neck to the side, and she hadn't said anything yet, which he had learned was a good sign. When she spoke, it was pretty much always in disapproval – typically over lying. She had shown very little interest in the actual testimony, though she had to be listening closely. "How do I describe Harry?"

He took his time, thinking about it, thinking about what words he would use to describe her, thinking both about what was _true_, but also what would paint her in the best light. What were the best words that he could use, that would paint her in all her complexities?

"Harry is gifted," he said finally. "Harry is extremely gifted. She's smart, she's hardworking, and she's a Potions prodigy. I think she might even be a genius, in Potions, at least. I don't think you can talk about Harry without talking about Potions. She was _four_ when she read her first potions article – I don't remember what it was, or why we had it, or what it was about, I only remember the look on her face. Her eyes, which are bright, electric green, were just _huge_, like she had discovered a whole new world, and I guess she had. She started getting those _Brew Your First Potions_ kits after that, the ones where they include the exact ingredients to make something simple, and Uncle Remus or Aunt Lily would watch her through her first few. She started getting pretty good, pretty fast, though, so soon the kits turned into textbooks, ingredient encyclopaedias, potions journals."

He laughed again, a more genuine one this time, remembering. He held his little goblet of water between his hands and looked down into it. "Our parents didn't know what to make of it – my Aunt Lily has some Potions skill, but not like Harry. It came out of nowhere, and she's so – she's _incredibly_ gifted at Potions. She got an internship at the Potions Guild when she was just thirteen, and then she made her own discovery, Shaped Imbuing. That's how good she is at Potions, and she was also obsessed with the topic, she read everything she could about it. Everything she could get her hands on, she read. When your sister is like that, it's… I don't know how to put it. You're proud of her, and you love her so, so much, and you want the world for her because you know if she can just be let out there to live her dreams, it'll be amazing. You learn to deal with the tics of genius – Harry is incredibly focused, she's very dedicated, and sometimes that means other things fall by the wayside. She is brilliant, she works hard, she's level-headed and fair and kind, she always tried to look out for me and take care of me – but she could also be oblivious, she sometimes has tunnel vision, and she can be aggravating. But on the whole, she's wonderful."

He didn't need to go on for that long about the wonders of Harry – Parkinson had already done it for him, and all he was doing was adding to it, almost mimicking her. The difference was, Parkinson only knew Harry as _Rigel_, whereas Archie had known Harry before that. His own words would reinforce hers, and it wasn't a bad picture of Harry to give. Parkinson and Malfoy had painted out more of her positives, anyway.

"When did you learn about blood-status, about the blood discrimination laws?"

Archie sighed, the smile disappearing off his face, taking a sip of his water. His throat was getting dry from talking. "I – I'd like to say I don't know, but that's not entirely true. I mean, on some level I really don't know – I don't know how to put it. We always knew that it was there. As a child, your parents talk, they tiptoe around some things and you have some ideas about it, but you don't really _know._ I knew blood-status existed, as in pureblood, halfblood, Muggleborn. I knew I was a pureblood, I knew Aunt Lily was a Muggleborn. I knew Harry was a halfblood."

"But I don't think it really _hit_ me until we were seven." He looked up, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "We were seven, and Harry had just found the articles of Potions Master Severus Snape. I found her on the floor of the sitting room, lying in front of the fire, a giant journal in her tiny little hands, and she looked up and me and said "Archie, you have to read this. It's _beautiful_." It was one of Master Snape's first papers on the Wolfsbane Potion and she just – she just ate it up. We – we knew that Uncle Remus was a werewolf, and both of us are very close to Uncle Remus, and maybe that was what drew her to this article at first but – but she _loved_ that paper. She carried it around, read it over and over again until it was dogeared and tatty, and then she found a second copy of that particular journal and got Aunt Lily to put protection spells on it, and I think that one is still on her shelf in her bedroom. Anyway. She found out that Master Snape taught at Hogwarts, and there were a few weeks, I think, where all she would talk about was how excited she was to go to Hogwarts, to learn from Master Snape himself. She was _so_ excited."

He fell silent for a moment, remembering. Mum was sick then, so Archie and Dad had been in and out of St. Mungo's. He had been worried about Mum, and reading Healing journals to figure out what the Healers were saying, and he hadn't been there when Aunt Lily and Uncle James had sat her down and explained the world to her. "I found Harry in her room one day, crying. Harry – Harry doesn't cry very often. I can count on one hand the times I've seen Harry cry. She was crying her heart out, and I crawled onto her bed with her and I asked her what was wrong, what had happened. And she told me that she couldn't go to Hogwarts, because Hogwarts didn't accept people like her."

"I didn't understand, at first, not really. I thought – I thought that meant I couldn't go to Hogwarts either, but I – I never had any real, inherent interest in going to Hogwarts. I told her that it was fine, that we'd just go to another school, but she said no, no, _I_ could go to Hogwarts, but she couldn't. Because I was a pureblood, and she wasn't." He paused again, trying to find words to describe that moment to the world. "Before this, to me, blood status was just like eye colour, or hair colour or – or the shape of your ears. It was just a fact, totally meaningless. This was the first time I realized that, even if Harry was my sister in every way that mattered, that wasn't enough. There were laws defining things that she wasn't allowed to do, that I could, because of something that really hadn't mattered to us."

"How did that affect you?"

"I – I don't know if I really understood it." Archie laughed softly, though the noise was a little unreal. He wasn't Harry, he didn't connect the dots as fast as she did, even now. He had always relied on other people to help him with that, whether it was Harry, or Hermione, or even John or Chess. "I actually don't think the full ramifications hit me for some time, and then it came on slowly, there wasn't just one clear-cut moment when the shock hit me. Initially, of course, I was surprised, and then I think it took me a few days to really understand that I could go to Hogwarts, and Harry couldn't. I – then, I think I was confused, and then I was upset because Harry was upset, because I didn't want to go to school without Harry. I didn't want to go to Hogwarts if Harry couldn't go, and it was like – it was like the rule was taking my sister away from me."

They broke for lunch – time seemed to just slip away, on the stand, and Archie didn't even realize it. He was too busy trying to paint a picture for Justice, for the few reporters that were still in the room. His pace of speaking was slower, too, and with all the natural pauses he had, as well as the pauses he put in to let the court staff, the reporters, take notes, everything took a lot longer than he had expected. Percy said this was a good time for a break, so he sat out, on the steps of the Wizarding Courts of Law, a Tupperware container of leftover fried rice in his lap, snacking at it with a conjured spoon. At this rate, he wouldn't be off the stand for two days or more, so he should eat, but his stomach was knot of nerves.

He had barely finished half of it before he was back on the stand. He exchanged quick, polite smiles to the court staff, settling back into the hard, wooden seat. His back was going to kill him later, and he couldn't even cast a muscle relaxant until he got home.

"How about your accidental magic?" Percy asked, picking up not quite where they had left off, and Archie knew that Percy was gearing to deal with the danger of wild magic issue. "What sort of incidents did the two of you have?"

"For me?" Archie paused thinking. "I had the usual incidents. I fell off my broom, once, and I bounced. Once, I was upset and crying, and the room started raining. I didn't want to eat my vegetables, so the dish cracked, things like that. For Harry, I honestly don't remember a lot. She always had such good control of her magic – I knew she was magical, I remember one incident when we were playing in the Black attic and she was about to fall, but she didn't because her magic caught her. She got control of her magic really young, so I remember when I was really little, she used to break the wards around some parts of Potter Place – that's Peverell Hall, formally – so that we could go exploring. But sometime, after we were five, she stopped doing that, she refused. After that, I don't remember any incidents at all. She was always afraid of what she could do, but I never knew why, because she always had such tight control of her magic."

"Were you ever frightened of her, or her magic?"

"Never." Archie shook his head in emphasis. "If anything, I felt reassured by it – even if Harry was frightened by it, I knew that Harry had enough control and would never have hurt me, and if anything happened, I knew she would act to protect me."

Percy nodded, moving on to his next line of questioning – the ruse. Archie had to be the most careful about the ruse, because he and Harry _had_ broken the law, and no matter what Archie said, he knew that the Prophet would twist his words. His job was to make his words strong enough that they could only twist them _so far_, that the alternate narratives the BIA, the _Irish Gales, _the _American Standard _and the _New York Ghost, La Presse Magique _and all the other reporters would send out would sound more credible and real. Archie's job, in this trial, was to bring a human face to the blood discrimination laws.

Percy shifted slightly at the podium. "Tell us about the ruse. How did that begin?"

Archie sighed, taking his time to pick his words carefully. "As I said, I didn't want to go to Hogwarts. I had – by the time we were picking schools, I had lost Mum, and I was already interested in Healing. Like Harry was interested in Potions and read Potions journals, I read Healing journals, I studied Healing memoirs and read books about Healing. The best Healing school in the Western hemisphere is at the American Institute of Magic, where my Aunt Lily went, and I knew that. And Harry, of course, couldn't go to Hogwarts, so if I could convince Dad to send me to AIM, it seemed perfect – Harry could come to AIM too, we would be together, and I would get the Healing program I wanted."

"Dad…" Archie looked straight at Percy, not wanting to look at Dad when he said it. He knew Dad had to be expecting something like this, but he didn't want to see the look of disappointment on his Dad's face that Archie had never wanted to go to Hogwarts, had no feeling whatsoever about his father's beloved school. "Dad refused. I got angry. I threw a temper tantrum. I think – had Mum been living, I probably would have been very happy to go to Hogwarts. But she wasn't. She died, and the best Healing school I could go to was AIM. I wanted to go there so I could become a Healer. From AIM, you can graduate at seventeen with a basic Mediwizard license and head straight into a specialization, and it saves about five years off schooling. By comparison, Hogwarts doesn't even offer a Healing NEWT. I knew I wanted to be a Healer – I _am_ becoming a Healer. I didn't see the point of wasting years of time at Hogwarts, then an apprenticeship, when AIM's program is so strong. I wanted to go to AIM.

"Harry came to me, that night, with the idea to switch." Archie smiled slightly, a little grimly. The most important thing for him to emphasize here was that, even if it was Harry's idea, Archie had been on board – he had been a thousand percent on board. He could not look like he was throwing all the blame on her. "It sounded like the ideal solution to our problems. Harry wanted to go to Hogwarts, and I didn't. I wanted to go to AIM, and Harry could arrange it so that she was registered for AIM, and I could go there under her name. I agreed. We knew it was risky, but Harry was willing to take that risk to work under Master Snape, and I – I would get to become a Healer. I'd get to study something that would, one day, help me keep people from feeling the same sort of pain I did when I lost my mother."

"Surely it could not have been so easy," Percy replied, his voice soft and inquiring. "What did you think about the risks?"

"Hmm." Archie sighed. "I knew about the risks, and Harry knew about the risks. To us, they were worth it. I wanted to be a Healer, and I still do – Healing is what I was intended to do, and AIM is where I belong. Harry is a Potions prodigy, and Master Snape is the best Potions Master now living. If anyone deserves to apprentice under Master Snape, it is Harry Potter. We were also only eleven at the time, and with Uncle James' work as an Auror, we thought we knew what the risks were better than most."

"How did you do it?"

"That very first year, we just took Polyjuice to fool our parents the night before we went to school, and we let it wear off when we were actually at school. We had our hair cut the same, and we did, then, look very similar. We were often mistaken for actual twins when we were in Diagon Alley, or at least blood siblings." Archie smiled – life would have been much easier had they both been pureblood siblings, but he didn't know if it would have been worth it. He met Hermione's eyes in the courtroom, and she tilted her head at him, encouraging. "In later years, Harry found a spell to blend our appearances, and she worked out a variation of Polyjuice to make it last for a year or so at a time. After I turned thirteen, I discovered that I was a Metamorphmagus, so I stopped taking the Polyjuice, but Harry kept with it."

"Can you tell us more about the blending spell, or the Polyjuice variant?"

Archie shook his head, reaching for the pitcher of water. "The blending spell was something runic, but I don't know it – I don't take Runes. I also don't know anything about the Polyjuice variant, that was one of Harry's innovations, I think."

There was a pause, as Percy looked over his notes. Archie ran through what he had said – he didn't _think_ he had said anything terrible. He couldn't be sure, but he had to trust Percy to go back over it if there was a problem.

"So, you went to the American Institute of Magic. Can you tell us about that?" Percy had decided to move on, so Archie let out a breath and followed him on.

"How do I describe a whole other culture?" Archie smiled again. "Especially here, in Wizarding Britain, where so few people have any context for what I'm about to say? I love the American Institute of Magic – like I said, AIM is where I belong. There's Healing, I went for the Healing program, but I discovered so much more."

This was hard – this was the conversation he had never managed to have with Harry, one where he had to somehow, magically, describe things in the No-Maj world that he loved, that would be so far out of her understanding here that she wouldn't be able to picture it, not really. And now, ironically, he would have to do this for the world, for mages who were far more sheltered than Harry, who didn't care for him and wouldn't want to listen. He looked at Hermione, and her gaze was steady, strong.

"I think one of the biggest differences between Wizarding America and Wizarding Britain is the amount of integration Wizarding America has with its No-Maj – Muggle – neighbours," he started slowly, trying to think through how to describe it. "Mages – witches and wizards – in America often have the same hobbies, the same interests as Muggles, they are a part of Muggle society as much as they are of Wizarding society. They see the same movies, they read the same books, they cheer on the same sports teams, they often even share the same faith as their Muggle neighbours and go to church or temple or mosque together. At AIM, children from magical families are required to take three years of Muggle Studies to ensure that they can blend into Muggle society as well as wizarding society, so I was introduced to some of my favourite things in the world: movies, theatre, acting. Science, and science fiction. _Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic _– that's Arthur C. Clarke, a Muggle science fiction writer. Muggles have been to the moon, did you know? The video recording of that first moonwalk – that was _amazing_ to me. Mages still haven't been to the moon.

"That creates a whole different atmosphere, for Wizarding America. Wizarding America looks _forward_, I think is the best way to put it. There is a strong emphasis on innovation, on pushing boundaries, on trying new things, there's a blending of No-Maj and magical things that's completely unlike here." Archie paused, thinking of an example, an easy one. "For example, sweatshirts with integrated Warming Charms – Muggles came up with a type of fabric called _fleece_, it's made from a kind of polyester, which is like… oh, gods. I don't know how to describe polyester. It doesn't really matter, but fleece is a Muggle fabric that is really light and warm, with some water-wicking ability so it holds up in light rain, too. It takes well to Warming Charms, so American mages often integrate one into the fabric itself. Since it's integrated, you don't need to know how to cast a Warming Charm at all, you just have to touch a marked corner of the sweatshirt and channel your magic at it and it activates. A lot of things in Wizarding America are like that, a blend of both Muggle and magical traditions, and it permeates everything – it's in the clothing, it's in their culture, it's in how they view the world."

He stopped, because he knew what the SOW Party would be saying to that – he knew how that would be spun, as the destruction of wizarding culture by the Muggle one. He had to deal with that, but delicately, without offending anyone. "It isn't that the Muggle culture has taken over the wizarding one, or that American mages have lost their sense of identity. It's that the culture has _grown _with it, a living tree instead of frozen earth, as people took the best things from No-Maj culture and blended it with what they already had. There is still a very strong American magical culture, but they have taken from Muggle culture all the things they admired and loved most, and American mages enjoy the best of both worlds. They can jump between Wizarding New York, in the Ramble of Central Park, to Broadway in a matter of minutes.

"AIM is very much part of that tradition," Archie continued, bringing it back to the original question. "There are a lot of clubs and activities at AIM that aren't at Hogwarts. Not just Quidditch teams, but Quodpot and Duelling, magical dance. Theatre. I joined the theatre company, where we put on performances by, mainly, No-Maj writers. Shakespeare, Arthur Miller, Rodger and Hammerstein's _South Pacific_. _Les Misérables_. I'm not making any sense, am I?"

He laughed, a little embarrassed. "I often felt guilty – I had left Wizarding Britain, to find a whole new world, and Harry was left behind. While I went out to watch movies, while I learned to act on a stage, while I read fantasy and science fiction books, and while I dreamed about travelling in outer space, in my place she had to deal with the Sleeping Sickness, then a basilisk, then she was attacked in her third year. She got to apprentice under Master Snape, but to me, that never seemed like a fair trade."

Percy nodded, and Archie guessed that it had been a good answer, even if it was a little incomprehensible, and he supposed the _Daily Prophet _was always going to take it out of context, anyway. "And how did Harry do, at Hogwarts?"

"I don't think anyone can deny that Harry has done amazing things at Hogwarts," Archie replied immediately, frowning a little as he remembered Nott and Greengrass. "She cured the Sleeping Sickness, and she killed the basilisk Petrifying students at the school in her second year. She survived being attacked by a professor in her third year. She's powerful, and she did Hogwarts credit in the Triwizard Tournament. People admired all these things about her when she carried my name and when people believed that she was a pureblood – why does the revelation that she was a halfblood all along change things? It shouldn't, because these are still her accomplishments."

He paused, looking directly at the rows of reporters. This was a bit of gamble, but he _wanted_ to say it, and he didn't feel like it was going too far. And he was angry, so he let it out, in as controlled a manner as he could make it. "I am not Harry Potter. I am very little like Harry Potter. Had I been at Hogwarts, I probably would have fallen ill. There would have been no cure for the Sleeping Sickness, not from me. Draco Malfoy would have died, because I would not have saved him – I would not have been _able_ to save him. In second year, the basilisk would have continued terrorizing the school, and your children would have kept being Petrified. I am not a Parselmouth, as Harry is, and I would not have been able to go into the Chamber of Secrets. Had I gone into the Chamber of Secrets as she did, I would have died. Had I been attacked by Peter Pettigrew as she was, I would have died. I would not have played for Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament – at most, I would have been in a Healer's position, like I was for AIM. The fact that Harry went to Hogwarts has been a _boon_ to Hogwarts and to their students, not a detriment or a danger, and that is the pure and unadulterated truth."

Maybe he went a little far. Percy looked down, signalling him to stop, and Archie shut up. He glanced over at Hermione, but her expression was almost admiring, so it couldn't have been that bad.

"It is almost five," Justice remarked, almost the only thing she had said all day. That was good – Archie hadn't tripped her lie identification powers, but then, everything he had said that day had been true. "My Chosen needs sustenance, and then sleep. Mr. Weasley, please finish this train of questioning, and we'll adjourn for the evening."

Percy looked over his notes, his plans, and shook his head. "Actually, this will be a fine time to stop for the evening, Madam Justice."

"Very well." Justice stood, and with a flick of her wrist, her sword, which had been her constant companion over the past week and a half, disappeared. "Court is adjourned until ten in the morning tomorrow."

That evening, Archie was exhausted. Hermione took care of his back the minute they crossed the wards of Grimmauld Place, since he had forgotten about it. As promised, John and Chess had huge, tinfoil platters of rice with souvlaki and gyros, a second platter of moussaka that just melted in his mouth, containers that had extra tzatziki sauce. It smelled fantastic, and Archie wished he could eat more of it, more of the buttery, rich rice, the creamy eggplant, the tender lamb and chicken, but he was so tired. Giving evidence was emotionally exhausting.

"Archie's doing very well," Hermione said quietly, over her own plate of gyros, at the end of her evening analysis. "At least, I think so. There's a weak point on the ruse – I don't think we can get around that Archie didn't _need_ to do the ruse, or that there's an inherent selfish element to it."

"So, he owns up to it," John replied, shaking his head. Archie knew that John came from a prominent American wizarding family (one couldn't be friends with John without knowing that), but occasionally that came with aspects he hadn't expected. John had experience with the media, and he sometimes knew better strategies for dealing with it than Archie did. "Front it with his age at the time of the ruse. Don't weasel out of it."

Hermione hesitated, then she sighed. "That is probably the best strategy, yes," she agreed. "Archie?"

"Mmhmm," he said, drifting off over his second plate of moussaka, and it wasn't long before Dad sent him off to bed.

The next day, he was back in the witness box, and the room was only slightly more crowded than it had been the day before. The reports in the _Daily Prophet_ had, predictably, focused on Archie being a Muggle-lover, which… well, Archie didn't disagree. They found some sort of sick fascination in the fact that Archie loved Muggle culture, but it was obvious as anything that the reporter on it had no idea what the things Archie had mentioned were. The Prophet's complete and total warping of _science fiction_, apparently the only thing that the reporter had had time to look up, had been unintentionally entertaining – they had sniffed and called it _Muggles dreaming of the impossible_, but Archie quite thought that was a good thing. As Clarke said, the only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the _impossible_.

"Going back to your experiences at AIM," Percy began, "can you tell us about how blood-status is perceived at AIM?"

Ah, right, Archie remembered. He had forgotten to go through blood-status at AIM yesterday, probably because it wasn't really something that ever came up there. "Blood-status isn't really a factor at AIM, and when I say that, I mean that it simply doesn't come up very often. I did know who the newbloods – Muggleborns – were because they were exempt from our mandatory No-Maj Studies classes, but otherwise I generally just didn't know the blood-status of my other classmates. For example, I only found out, late in my fourth-year, that my friend Neal Queenscove is a pureblood, descended from two very old wizarding families. It just isn't something that matters most of the time, so no one mentions it."

"Most of the time, you said," Percy repeated. "Can you elaborate? When is it relevant?"

"When it affects their magic, I suppose," Archie replied slowly, gearing up to explain Exceptionals and the Exceptionals program. He and Percy had decided that having Archie testify about the Exceptionals program would be a net gain to their case, since it acknowledged that Muggleborns and halfbloods could have different magic. Acknowledging the academic consensus, Percy thought, would make their case more credible overall. However, Archie also had to be careful – both to tell the truth, but also to emphasize that the differences meant little.

"At AIM," he said, choosing his words carefully, "there is a program for people with exceptional magic. That can mean almost anything; a lot of very powerful students end up in the program, or anyone else with an unusual gift. For example, I have a friend in the program because she never bonded with a wand, because her ideal wand is cherrywood and kraken's blood and no one's seen a kraken for a thousand years. I have another friend in the program because her magic is uncooperative with formed spells, so she works a lot with raw magic, and she's an extremely gifted Healer. Some people, too, go in and out of the program when serious mental health issues like depression or anxiety arise, which can interfere with their magic."

He let out a sigh. He had fronted his answer with the program in general, because it really wasn't a program that was only for newbloods and halfbloods. He thought Harry would have ended up in the program, with her issues with magic, at least for a short time in first year while they worked out her wand issue, then maybe another year when she was struggling with her suppressor. But the fact was that the program was _disproportionately _newbloods, who also had the weirdest issues. "About half of the people in the Exceptionals program are Muggleborns. Both of my friends in the program are Muggleborn. People in the Exceptionals program are assigned a mentor and given help to work with their magic, and if necessary, they are given accommodations – my friend who doesn't have a wand is allowed to use paper charms in class instead of a wand."

Percy nodded, signalling that the answer had been a good one, though Archie suspected he would be facing questions about this in cross-examination. He had to be ready for that, but he hoped he had softened the blow – and added to the credibility of their case.

"You mentioned a few of your friends," Percy said, redirecting him. "Can you tell us more about them?"

Archie felt himself light up – he loved his friends. His friends were the best! "Of course! My closest friends at AIM are Hermione Granger, Francesca Lam, and John Kowalski, but I also get along well with a lot of other people. I'm friendly with a few upper-years, Neal Queenscove and Daine Sarrasri, and with some of John's friends from Duelling, like Kel Mindelan, Merric Hollyrose, Seaver Tasride. And Faleron King and Owen Jesslaw, too. And in theatre, I have friends: Evin Larse, Zahir ibn Alhaz, Thea McKinnon, and Heather Taylor."

Percy held up his hand, stopping him, but he had a slight smile on his face. "What are their blood statuses?"

Oh, right. Archie deflated a little – the point, for this trial, was blood status. "Hermione and Francesca are newbloods – Muggleborns, I mean. John is a halfblood, Neal a pureblood, and Daine is a newblood too. The rest of my friends, I haven't a clue. It's never come up."

Percy nodded. "Have you ever felt at risk, ever, by either Harry or your other halfblood and Muggleborn friends?"

"Never," Archie said, his response immediate. "Never, ever, and if anything, I think AIM has _fewer_ supervisions and controls than Hogwarts does. We have class monitors, but no prefects, and our professors try to stay as uninvolved as they can. And, objectively, my four years at AIM have been a great deal safer than the past four years have been at Hogwarts."

Percy nodded again, reaching quickly in his pocket for his pocket watch, but Archie knew it couldn't be lunch, yet. Even by the bizarre acceleration of court time, he hadn't answered enough questions, he didn't think. He had only had one glass of water so far today, from the pitcher helpfully supplied at the witness box. Percy cleared his throat and continued, a slightly apologetic look on his face. "Have you been harmed by the blood discrimination laws in any other way?"

"Yes," Archie replied, understanding. This was the last segment of his testimony, but it was a longer one, and it was unlikely they would break for lunch until he was done. That meant a later break, maybe not for hours yet.

He took a deep breath, looking down. If the prosecution wanted to make it out that halfbloods and Muggleborns harmed people, Archie would throw out that the laws had hurt him, too. Even Dad had agreed, albeit reluctantly, once Archie told him what he was planning, but he didn't want to look at Dad when he said it. For Dad, the knowledge was still too raw.

"I said yesterday that my mother passed away in 1989, and that it was the most defining thing in my life before I started school. When she passed away, we didn't know what her illness was – it's in the records as _not yet diagnosed._" Archie's voice was quiet, slow – loud enough, he hoped, that people would still hear him, but serious. "I also said that my secondary area of concentration at AIM was No-Maj Medicine. When I was in my third year, I learned about certain auto-immune conditions for which No-Maj medicine is more effective, because they are comparatively rare in witches and wizards. One of those conditions is called _multiple sclerosis_."

He looked up, letting himself speak as a Healer instead of as a son, as _Healer Black _and not _Arcturus_ _Rigel_ _Black_. "In general, mages do not develop auto-immune disorders because the protective effects of magic are thought to prevent the body from turning in on itself. This is an area of Healing that is still developing, since the conditions are rare among mages, so it is not yet understood what the protective factors are, or how they might fail, or how to use magic in treatment either before or after the condition develops. Even in the No-Maj world, auto-immune disorders are still being studied, and there is generally no cure when the body turns on itself.

"When magic becomes involved, everything becomes more complicated because of the usual way that magic acts in the immunological response. Currently, if a mage develops an auto-immune disorder such as multiple sclerosis, the best treatments are still No-Maj pharmaceuticals, not magical." He laughed, a surprisingly bitter sound.

"I read the about multiple sclerosis, and I thought the symptoms sounded familiar – too familiar. Multiple sclerosis acts in episodes of neurological weakness, caused by lesions forming in the brain stem, which can occur more often in warm weather. This is called Ulthoff's phenomenon. Mum had that – she had all the classic symptoms, so in my third year, I went through her old medical records. I snuck them with me to AIM and I had a friend specializing in complex care review them with me."

He glossed over the actual _obtaining the records_ part of the narrative. It wasn't relevant, and he hoped by simply saying he went through them, as if obtaining them hadn't been an issue at all, no one would ask him about it. "We found, in the diagnostic imaging reports, the lesions that define multiple sclerosis."

He stopped, taking the time to pour himself a glass of water. He sipped at it, slowly finishing half a glass before he continued. "In the No-Maj world, multiple sclerosis is common enough and well enough understood that, even if there is no cure, the treatments that exist, which are meant to promote healing after an episode and prevent further episodes, are effective enough that, once diagnosed, a person lives on average thirty years from diagnosis. In the Wizarding world, because the condition is rarer and takes longer to be diagnosed and for treatment to start, the average is about ten years. However, the Wizarding number is misleading, somewhat lower because of the number of mages who aren't diagnosed quickly enough, or who refuse treatment out of a mistrust of No-Maj medicine; they pass away from the illness much earlier. If diagnosed and treated, mages with the condition can survive for many years."

"But that," he said, and his voice became deeper, stronger, angrier. "That requires a certain amount of _integration_ with the Muggle world, which we simply don't have anymore in Britain. My mum was not diagnosed. She was not treated. And she, like so many others, died in two and a half years. She didn't need to."

He fell silent for a minute, collecting more thoughts. Just as Percy opened his mouth, he continued. "That is the worst way, I think, that the discrimination laws have hurt me – they created a world that isolated us from our Muggle neighbours, where we cannot benefit from their advances in medicine, in science, in technology. That bleeds over into everything – the isolation of our world hurts all of us, and it's just a matter of how much you _know_ you are being hurt. For many, maybe its only the book, the movie, the sport they would have loved if only they knew about it. For others, it's the friends they would have made, that they didn't because now, they never met them. For still others, maybe it's the love of their life – the one they never met, the one that won't come home to Britain because they won't live like a second-class citizen, the one that died of a treatable, No-Maj illness. We don't know what we miss, when we block a part of the world away."

Percy seemed like he was about to stop him, redirect him, but Archie plowed ahead. "More directly, of course, there's the obvious – the blood discrimination laws took my sister away. I don't know where she is, and she can't come home, because we were put in a world where her brilliance was only something that could shine if she was something she wasn't. I gave her that chance, but even if we'll all benefit from the discoveries she'll make, she's still gone. She's gone, and she can't come home."

There was a long moment of silence, and Percy's head was down, reviewing his notes. Archie poured himself his second glass of water, draining it almost as quickly as he had poured it, his gulps loud in the silence. What time was it? It had to be noon or later, by now.

"Those are all my questions, Your Honour," Percy said finally, setting down his pen. He pulled out his pocketwatch. "It is nearly one in the afternoon. Might I suggest we break before cross-examinations?"

Justice nodded, her expression cool and impassive. "Court is recessed until two in the afternoon."

Out on the steps of the courthouse, Archie took a deep breath. He hadn't cried – not that he hadn't wanted to, but he had to be genuine, and the mix of anger and sadness he had felt, more anger than sadness, was not a recipe for tears. Hermione sat down close beside him, pulling out his lunch from her bag, and he couldn't help but inch a little closer to her, to her warmth.

"Here," she said, passing him the plastic container of rice with leftover souvlaki and gyros. There was a generous dollop of tzatziki sauce in one corner, and Dad handed him a fork. "Eat."

"How was I?" He tried for a smile, but it fell flat. He was already tired, his nerves strung out, and the afternoon would probably be even worse. Percy hadn't been kind in cross-examinations, and he didn't think Clearwater would be, either.

"You were fine, Archie." Hermione nudged him with her shoulder. "I think you should expect a lot of questions from today, though – they're going to say it was speculative, that we couldn't really know. Remember, whatever she says, don't get angry."

"Don't get upset, either – stay calm, as much as you can," Dad added, on his other side. "Just answer the questions, as short and simple as you can."

"And admit the things that are obvious – don't fight an obvious conclusion." Uncle Remus' voice was quiet, serious. "It'll make you look less credible if you avoid an answer that seems really clear. Make sure your answers are clear, but don't argue with the prosecutor."

"Yeah," Archie replied, with a weak sort of grin, as he dug into his lunch. It was still delicious, even cold. "Thanks, everyone."

The advice was easier to hear than it was to follow. As bad as Archie had expected cross-examination to be, it was worse. It was a thousand times worse, and he had to fight to keep his voice even, keep his anger from showing at any given time. Thank the gods he had taken theatre – the experience made him all that much better at hiding his feelings and answering in a calm, collected, even voice.

Clearwater attacked Harry and the ruse, first. He knew this part was coming – she picked up immediately that Harry was the one to propose the ruse, and no matter how Archie tried to soften that, he couldn't lie. It was true that Harry was the one who proposed it, and it was Archie who had dived in, headfirst. There was only so much the latter could make up for the former, especially when Clearwater asked him, from about six different angles, whether Archie would have thought of the ruse, or gone ahead with it, without Harry.

The answer was no. The answer was always no – he would have thought of it, but he couldn't have done it without her. But he knew the Prophet could use his testimony to blame Harry for the ruse, for the scandal, and he didn't know how many times he could emphasize that he had been an equal partner in it.

Just as Hermione had predicted, Clearwater hit hard on how needless the ruse was, and Archie had no choice but to admit those points. Yes, Archie could have become a Healer without going to AIM. Yes, Hogwarts did have a small Healing program and offered a Healing OWL, even if they didn't offer a Healing NEWT. Yes, AIM had a Potions Mastery program. Yes, Harry could have graduated from AIM with a Potions Mastery. No, there was no guarantee that Harry would have gotten her Potions Mastery before the end of her seventh year, and indeed, because she was now a fugitive, she would not likely have her Mastery before the end of her seventh year now. Yes, they could both have achieved their dreams without breaking the law.

They were _eleven_ at the time, Archie repeated, in response to more than half the questions. They had started the ruse when they were eleven, and even by the time they were twelve, there was no going back. Yes, they had contemplated switching back, but never seriously – their friends and teachers knew them now and the risk of being caught or of involving others in their lies was simply too great. No, they had never tried to switch back.

But given the opportunity to switch back, no, they wouldn't have taken it. _That_ was a hit that scored.

Then Clearwater headed into Wizarding American culture and the Exceptionals program, and Archie started gritting his teeth between questions as they got more and more offensive. Yes, Muggle culture in America had influenced wizarding culture. No, he didn't think that meant that wizarding culture had been destroyed, it had only grown to become something new. Yes, he supposed that meant that the wizarding culture that existed before was gone, but it had developed into something else. He invoked the living tree comparison again, but he didn't think it made a difference, and he knew that the _Daily Prophet_ would be writing, that night and the next day, that Archie didn't care about preserving Wizarding culture.

The questions on the Exceptionals program were even worse. Archie admitted, upfront, that newblood and halfblood magic was wild, and that the program did have a disproportionately high number of newbloods, but he also noted that for every newblood in the program, there were many who weren't. He noted, too, that there were people who weren't newbloods in the program, because there could be problems with magic when someone came down with, for example, depression or an anxiety disorder. He didn't know whether any of those people were purebloods, but he found it unlikely that there were _no _purebloods in the program. No, he didn't think that newbloods and halfbloods should be educated separately. The people in his school in accommodated programs did very well, and he was proud to know them and go to school with them. No, he didn't think that people who had different magic should be educated separately.

He had a minor outburst at that, losing his cool for a minute and talking about _Brown v Board of Education_ and how separate but equal did not work, but he didn't think that went anywhere. Then he had to answer a bunch of questions about racial segregation in No-Maj America in the middle of the century, which was _not_ helpful for his case, since it was a darker chapter in American No-Maj history, but he hoped he had saved it by talking about the civil rights movement too. He wasn't sure – it was a bit off topic, but hopefully he had staved off the inevitable argument that No-Maj culture was terrible and should come nowhere near wizarding culture. Because blood discrimination was so much better, he groused internally.

The only good thing about his outburst was that derailing the questioning made it take longer, and Clearwater didn't finish her cross-examination before they finished for the day. Archie was silently grateful for that, if only because it would allow him to collect himself and regain his cool for the next day of cross-examination, which promised to be even worse.

Chess and John had come up with ramen that night – huge, steaming bowls of ramen with chewy noodles and warm, rich, meaty broth, pickled vegetables, fatty pork belly, a soft-boiled egg and a pat of butter on top. It was _delicious_, and for once there were no leftovers.

The next day, Archie fielded questions about Mum, and it was just as Hermione had said. Clearwater attacked the diagnosis, the results, as _speculative._ No, Archie was not yet a Healer. No, no one who had looked at the records were fully accredited Healers. Yes, Archie was reasonably certain of his conclusions, but he would acknowledge that since his mother had passed away, he could never know for certain. The records that existed still spoke for themselves. Yes, even assuming that Archie's conclusions were correct, he didn't know how she would have responded to treatment. Yes, if she had been diagnosed, it was possible that she still would not have responded to treatment and she would still have passed away – but it was a _chance_ that she, and Archie, and Dad, never got to have.

Yes, he would acknowledge that paths not taken would, in some ways, always lead to a loss. He didn't have the friends he would have made had he gone to Hogwarts, either. The difference was, Archie said, that he had _chosen_ to go to AIM – the laws that he had issue with _prevented_ halfbloods and newbloods from making the choices they would have made, all other things being equal, and that was what really led to what he saw as the loss. It was about the freedom to decide, self-determination, that was being taken away.

Yes, he would acknowledge that Harry was gone mainly because of the laws that he and Harry had broken. Harry could have obeyed the laws, and nothing would have prevented her from returning to home, living in Britain. She might even have made the same discoveries, having gone to AIM, even if she went by them differently or came by them later. The main reason why she couldn't come home was the fact that she had broken the law, and Archie couldn't argue with that. Towards the end, he was falling apart, and he knew it and couldn't seem to stop it.

"You'd agree, wouldn't you, that most of the harm you claim to have suffered is because you chose to _break_ the law instead of following it, isn't that right?" Clearwater asked, her voice pointed.

"The laws are wrong," Archie snapped, grey eyes flashing. "The laws are needless and harm _everyone_."

"Do you agree that the laws, in fact, protect wizarding culture, and wizards, from the influence of Muggles?"

"I don't think wizarding culture is something so weak that it _needs_ protection, and I think the laws make wizarding culture weaker by freezing it instead of letting it grow, changing with the times."

The only good thing about those questions were that they marked the end of his cross-examination, and Archie was _finally _let go, after two and a half days on the stand. He felt _awful_. He replayed his last few answers in his head, over and over on repeat, feeling like a failure. All he had to do was keep calm, keep collected and put the best case forward, and he didn't do it. He had gotten angry, and defensive, and he had lost his cool, and he didn't know how his argumentative answers were going to help at all. He had no idea what he was supposed to say in reply, how he was supposed to highlight the injustice of the laws when he _had_ broken them, how he could make the world _understand_.

"It's fine," Hermione said, reassuring, passing him his lunch – a motley mix of leftovers, today. More Cantonese fried rice, a few pieces of souvlaki, a couple puffs of pao de queijo. Completely random, a variety that made no sense. "It's over."

"I think you did fine, Arch," Dad said, putting one arm around him. "Cross-examination makes everyone look terrible."

Archie nodded, chewing on a piece of meat. He didn't know if he believed them, but at least it was over.

That afternoon, Percy called Lord Dumbledore to the stand, to testify about Hogwarts itself.

"Hogwarts was founded in 966 for the education of young witches and wizards throughout the British Isles," the elderly wizard said, his voice calm and collected. His blue eyes seemed to be smiling as he glanced at Archie. "Until the sixteenth century, of course, witches and wizards were not hidden from their Muggle neighbours, so blood status was unimportant. One either had magic or not, and if a child had magic, his or her parents would inevitably consider enrolling them in school. In those early centuries, many parents, especially wizarding parents, chose to homeschool their children rather than sending them to Hogwarts. I would say that, in those years, Hogwarts had more of what we now call Muggleborns and halfbloods. Hogwarts has always been a wand-casting school, you see, and many wizarding parents wanted to ensure the continuation of their traditional casting methods, and did not send their children to Hogwarts."

Dumbledore paused. "Things changed, of course, as our society changed. First, of course, there were the prohibitions against traditional casting methods in the thirteenth century, meant to suppress the Welsh uprisings. As part of those policies, schooling at Hogwarts became mandatory for all witches and wizards in the country. The intention was to force all witches and wizards to wand use, integrating the most rebellious populations into the mainstream. More than six centuries on, this seems to have been quite effective."

His blue eyes twinkled, and Archie suppressed a small laugh. The words were said so mildly that they could have meant anything, but Archie knew as well as Dumbledore no doubt did that those traditional magical practices were still alive, many centuries on. Saiorse was a traditional caster, and Ilvermorny had _demolished_ their pool with her at the helm.

"The next major change was, of course, the institution of the Statute of Secrecy," Dumbledore continued. "Witches and wizards had been withdrawing from Muggle society throughout the seventeenth century, so in some respects, the Statute of Secrecy was only the conclusion to a long process of withdrawal which had begun much earlier. It was around this time that blood status, between purebloods, halfbloods, and Muggleborns started being a defining feature. Muggleborns now needed to be introduced to the wizarding world, whereas halfbloods and purebloods generally did not."

"And when did the prohibitions against Muggleborns and halfbloods come into place?" Percy asked, though the entire room, save Justice, already knew the answer.

"1952 for Muggleborns, and 1981 for halfbloods," Dumbledore answered promptly. "The last class in which halfbloods attended Hogwarts was the class of 1987; for Muggleborns, they were the class of 1959."

"Would you remind me of when you begin teaching at Hogwarts?"

"Teaching?" Dumbledore chuckled. "My entire career has been teaching, my dear Mr. Weasley. I joined the staff at Hogwarts in the year 1919, soon after the first Muggle World War."

"And throughout your tenure, what differences have you noticed, as the student body became progressively more pureblooded?"

"Differences?" Dumbledore paused to think, though Archie thought he knew the answer before Dumbledore replied. "Very little. Our students remain as capable as they ever were, and the curriculum is largely unchanged over many decades. I do believe that many modern schools today criticize our pedagogical methods, particularly the lack of specialty and mastery programs, but Hogwarts, and its students, remains one of the strongest examples of the strengths of a broad, wide-ranging, neoclassical education."

"Have you noticed any changes in the number of accidents, trips to the Hospital Wing, or the dangers posed to students since the institution of the prohibitions?"

"Since the prohibitions?" Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled, amused. "I would say the last few years have been _exceptionally_ dangerous for students. First, with the Sleeping Sickness, nearly all of our children between the ages of ten and thirteen fell ill, many of them for months; the next year, we had a half-dozen petrifactions. We never had a professor attempt to take life of a student until 1994, and certainly the Triwizard Tournament was a great deal more dangerous than we had anticipated.

"However, even excepting the dangerous spate of years we appear to be in, I would say that there has been little to no change in the number of dangers or incidents that we have had. Throughout the 1980s, we had the continuing trials of the Cursed Vaults, which, while by no means as serious as these last few years, still led to injury among the students." Dumbledore paused, and frowned slightly. "Indeed, we seem to have been quite unfortunate… Certainly, I have not heard of any other school with a similar spate of difficulties."

Lord Dumbledore's testimony was brief – Percy had only called him to talk about the history of the school and to emphasize that there had been no change in dangers or incidents since Muggleborns and halfbloods had been banned from the school. He noted that Hogwarts, like all schools, kept extensive records, Healing and otherwise, about the numbers of injuries students sustained in any given year. The worst year, by far, was the year with the Sleeping Sickness; aside from that, there were a few years in late 1980s, before Harry had started at Hogwarts, that were particularly bad.

In cross-examination, Clearwater attacked his political position, but Lord Dumbledore acknowledged that he was indeed the de facto leader of the Light and stated that, his personal views aside, the school records stood on their own and showed that there had been no demonstrable change in the number of incidents over the years. Clearwater didn't seem to be able to push Lord Dumbledore into making any other admissions, and Archie left that day feeling slightly better about his case. As badly as he might have done in cross-examination, Lord Dumbledore had done well, and they still had their own, opposing, magical theorist to go.

John and Chess had gone with seafood, that night. There was a clam chowder that sat heavily in Archie's stomach, a bucket of mussels with little bowls of melted butter, a whole crab that Archie had to struggle to touch because the creature looked terrifying, flipped upside down on the table, long legs reaching to the ceiling, split in half, black eyes staring.

"No, I don't think I can do it," he said eventually, on his fourth attempt to break off a leg of the crab. He kept reaching for it, flinching, and pulling his hand away. "It's – it's a weird, bizarre space creature and it's going to come back to life and claw my eyes out in my sleep. All its compatriots are going to seek revenge for it. I don't know. I can't touch it."

"Oh, for goodness' sake." Hermione rolled her eyes, broke off a third of a leg, and handed it to him. "It's a _crab_. Just eat it, it's delicious."

"John and I ate all of its compatriots already anyway," Chess added, breaking apart another leg and sucking out the meat with expert efficiency. She couldn't eat ice mice or chocolate frogs, but apparently a crab posed no problems. She was officially weird, or weirder than she already was. Archie looked back at the crab, overflowing the plate on the table, and shuddered.

The next day, Percy called Professor Phillip Newman to the stand – a Master of Magical Theory, former Curse-breaker, and current Professor of both Magical Theory and Curse-breaking at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor Newman had brown hair, threaded with grey, and crafty hazel eyes. Archie didn't quite know what to make of him. He had never met him, but Percy assured him that he would stand up well against Master Albright.

Professor Newman had received his Mastery in Magical Theory many years ago and had gone on to work for about two decades as a Curse-breaker for Gringotts Bank, travelling around the world. After that, he worked as a consultant, specializing in magical theory and Curse-breaking. He had joined the Hogwarts staff in the mid-1980s, around the time the Cursed Vaults had first opened, then had stayed at Hogwarts because he enjoyed teaching. Very few students at Hogwarts took either Magical Theory or Curse-breaking, so he still took on consulting work through his old firm in France, though nowadays his fieldwork was limited.

He had not published as often as Master Albright had, only very few papers at the interface of Curse-breaking and Magical Theory. As far as Archie was concerned, Master Albright had been no different – all of Master Albright's papers had been in the interface of Magical Theory and Alchemy. Still, that didn't stop Clearwater from challenging Professor Newman's credentials, but she was thankfully unsuccessful. Professor Newman's extensive practical field experience more than made up for his lack of academic publications, Justice ruled.

His testimony was, remarkably, quite a lot like Master Albright's – except for where it wasn't. Like Master Albright, he agreed that Muggleborns and halfbloods had different magic than purebloods. Like Master Albright, he even called it _wild magic_. Like Master Albright, he acknowledged that the wildness of a halfblood or Muggleborn's magic tended to be ironed out over successive generations, and he even referred to Archibald's Theory of Increasing Organization.

Unlike Master Albright, he saw wild magic as an _advantage_. Many Muggleborns and halfbloods had powers that purebloods didn't, which both led to the beauty of magical theory _as_ a field, and had often proven useful _in_ the field. Some magical gifts could only occur in halfbloods or Muggleborns – most Natural Legilimens and Empaths, for example, had recent Muggle or Muggleborn ancestry, and of course no pureblood Truth-Speaker had ever been identified. Archie chanced a glance at Justice at that comment; she had a tiny smile, which disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared. The misconception that Muggleborns didn't have gifts was only that, a misconception, because a lot of the gifts that Muggleborns _did_ have were too individualized and didn't have a name. As a Curse-breaker and a consultant, Professor Newman had known many witches and wizards who had powers that didn't have names yet, including someone that Archie thought was a lot like Daine, who had difficulty with formed spells but could circumvent a lot of known spells. Certain core types, too, were far more common in Muggleborn and halfblood witches and wizards – purebloods tended to fall into one of the four main elements, of fire, water, air or earth, but Muggleborns and halfbloods tended to show variations, blends, or entirely new elements, such as metal, ice, or lightning.

He disagreed that this meant that Muggleborns and halfbloods were more dangerous. To the contrary, as a working Curse-breaker and consultant, he had often taken advantage of the unique powers that many Muggleborns and halfbloods had, and he had never had any doubt or concern about doing so. While their magic was _wild_, that didn't mean that it was _uncontrolled_ or _dangerous _– wild was simply the word used by magical theorists to describe it, and it had about as much meaning as grammatical gender. No one actually thought, speaking French, that a fork was male; similarly, wild in the context of magical theory was a quality, but it didn't speak to dangers posed. In his opinion, the blood discrimination laws could not be justified on the grounds of magical theory.

In cross examination, Clearwater focused on Master Albright's point about the risks a society was willing to take, about whether the Wizengamot had the authority to make decisions that it thought best and most protective of the population as a while. Shockingly, Professor Newman only sounded _better_ after the cross-examination. He refused to engage at all with the question of whether the Wizengamot had the authority to make law, saying only that it was outside his area of expertise, and returned, repeatedly, to the simple point that magical wildness was not the same thing as danger. To the extent that laws were legislated on this basis, they were, in his view, responding to a risk that didn't exist.

In desperation, Clearwater tried to find a point of bias, but remarkably, Professor Newman was a pureblood and a former Slytherin. He was Neutral, both politically and magically, though as a non-noble, he was not represented in government and generally took little notice of it. Indeed, Archie thought it sounded like he simply didn't care very much about the blood discrimination laws, since so much of his consultancy work was outside Britain – for him, as a pureblood, it was a rather provincial, British issue that didn't affect him very much.

The most that Clearwater managed to score from him was an acknowledgement that he was paid by Hogwarts, and therefore linked to Lord Dumbledore. Professor Newman, with a perfectly puzzled look, admitted easily that _of_ _course_ he was paid by Hogwarts – he would not have left his, frankly, quite lucrative position as a consultant to become a teacher without being paid for it. Even now, his teaching salary made up just under half of his income, and his consulting work, based out of his old office in France, the rest. His partner, Lina Avery, ran their security analysis firm in Toulouse and he worked from overseas.

Going into closing submissions the next day, Archie was cautiously optimistic. The prosecution's case, Hermione thought, had been a bit of a disaster. Percy had called into question Dawlish's testimony for bias, and most of Harry's fellow students had been either blatantly unhelpful or destroyed in cross-examination. The prosecution had to rest most of their case on their expert witness, Master Albright, and what Percy called a _non-justiciability_ argument, the ability of the Wizengamot to make law based on their own priorities without the interference of the court. The standard rule was, the Wizengamot made the laws, and the courts followed them. Hermione thought this was ridiculous, especially because Justice had _already_ rejected that on the second day.

Percy was less sure. _No one_, he reminded them, had run a trial before Justice in five centuries. He could only guess at what principles she used to make a decision, and while he had aimed his arguments at as many broad, overarching ideals as possible, he had no idea how Justice would respond. He would do his best, and that was all he could promise.

The morning of closing submissions was wet. Rain poured down in sheets, water running down Diagon Alley in thin rivulets between the cobblestones. There was thunder, in the distance, and Chess had taken one look outside and handed Archie a paper-charm to keep the water off him and his suit.

The courtroom was more crowded than it had been in weeks. Closing submissions normally drew more attention than testimony; Archie spotted Malfoy and Parkinson there, with Lord and Lady Malfoy, as well as Lord Dumbledore, seated beside a stern-faced woman with her hair in a tight bun. Most of the others he didn't recognize, but then, there was no reason he should. He wasn't Harry.

The doors slammed open, and Aldon strode in, looking more like a drowned cat than anything else. He was soaking wet, his clothes sopping and dripping over the courtroom floor, and his hair was a slick disaster. He didn't look like he cared, his face a worrying blank board, and he simply marched, wooden, onto the platform. Again, just like every morning over the last two weeks, the minute he crossed the glowing insignia on the floor, he seemed to come to, and it only took a few waves of his hand for him to dry off, his clothes to change, a golden coronet to appear to push back his dark hair, for the puddles on the floor to disappear. Justice didn't, Archie thought, care much at all about the condition of her Chosen, except to the extent that it affected her.

"Miss Clearwater, Mr. Weasley," she greeted the lawyers, settling into her seat on the top dais. "I understand this is the last day of trial, and we have only your closing submissions to go. Is that correct?"

"That is," Clearwater confirmed, standing at the podium, and Justice inclined her head for the woman to proceed. As Percy had explained to him, the prosecution always went first in closing, so Clearwater was already prepared. "Your Honour, the issue in this trial is whether Mr. Arcturus Rigel Black should be found guilty of the two offences: aiding and abetting in the commission of blood identity theft, and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft, which was in fact successfully committed. Mr. Black does not contest the underlying facts of these charges, being that he did, indeed, trade places with his halfblood cousin, Harriett Euphemia Potter, to allow her to go to Hogwarts."

She glanced down at her notes, a scroll of parchment, for a moment before continuing. "Mr. Weasley, on behalf of Mr. Black, has called into question the justice of the underlying law: blood identity theft. The prosecution submits that this is misguided. First, this is a non-justiciable issue – it is the responsibility of the Wizengamot to make the laws, based on political priorities. It is not the role of the Court to second-guess or change these laws."

Justice had a dark look forming on her face, and Archie knew right away that this argument wasn't going to work. It hadn't worked with Umbridge, and it wouldn't work when Clearwater said it, and he didn't even know why she had tried. Even Percy had an eyebrow raised, but Clearwater blazed ahead, the only sign she had noticed the atmosphere in the courtroom being the quickening of her voice as she rushed to spit out her next sentence.

"However, should this Court find fit to consider this issue, the prosecution submits that the law is fully founded on the facts. You have heard evidence from many sources on the harms posed by Muggleborns and halfbloods to our society; you have heard from Auror Dawlish that the areas of the Lower Alleys with high populations of Muggleborns and halfbloods have higher rates of violent crime than otherwise, and you have heard from Master Albright that Muggleborns and halfbloods have wild magic, which makes them more unpredictable, more dangerous than purebloods, who no longer have the same wildness to their magic. Master Albright has acknowledged that his position is a minority one, but the prosecution submits that, in this case, it still provides the Wizengamot a clear basis on which to legislate. The matter of the level of risk to our society is willing to permit is one fully within the purview of the Wizengamot.

"Without the blood identity theft laws, there is a risk to the people who could be defrauded or harmed." Clearwater paused, taking a moment to pour herself a glass of water and taking a sip. "In this respect, the case of Miss Potter and Mr. Black is demonstrative; in their ruse, many people were harmed. Four of Miss Potter's friends and classmates have testified to the harm they have suffered as a result of her deception, to varying degrees. The Ministry, and the Wizengamot, have an obligation to the witches and wizards to ensure that halfbloods and Muggleborns do not misrepresent themselves to the public, to regulate magic and to protect the public interest.

"Second, and even if the Court does not accept that the law is valid, the prosecution submits that Mr. Black is not in _locus standi_ to challenge the law. Mr. Black has not been charged with blood identity theft – he has only been charged with _aiding and abetting _and _conspiracy_ to commit blood identity theft. These are different offences and opening the law to permit him to challenge a law that he has not been charged with would violate the well-established doctrine of _locus standi._ While Mr. Black may be affected by the law, he is a pureblood, and the prosecution submits that there are other, more appropriate persons who may challenge the law – particularly, Miss Potter herself. The justice of the law should be challenged in circumstances providing the best evidence, which necessarily cannot be the case here because Mr. Black is, critically, a pureblood."

She stopped, taking a long drink of water, then took a deep breath. "In conclusion, the Ministry requests that this Court convict Mr. Black of both charges. For sentencing, we submit that, in this case, the loss of his magic would be appropriate. Thank you."

The courtroom behind burst into whispers, a swell of sound. Justice glared, but Archie was taken aback by the Ministry's leniency. Losing his magic? That was nothing! That just meant he would integrate himself in the No-Maj world – Hermione and Dad would help him enroll in a good No-Maj school, he would join Chess at the mythical No-Maj _college_ that she occasionally mentioned, that her parents expected her to attend. He could act – did people study acting in college? Or, no, even better, he would study No-Maj medicine! Even if Daine's pharmacology looked terrifying, he knew he would be up to the task, if he didn't have magic and if that was what he had to do to become a No-Maj doctor.

He would even have his friends, his family, still! Hermione, John, Chess – none of them would care that he couldn't do magic anymore. He didn't think _any_ of his friends would care if he couldn't do magic anymore, and of course Dad wouldn't care. He would just be the equivalent of a Squib. That was _nothing_ – he would still have _life_, and a _life _was something that could not be taken back.

"A fate worse than death," he heard someone whisper, several rows behind him, her voice infused with horror, and it was only then that Archie understood.

For Wizarding British mages, the loss of magic _was_ a fate worse than death. It wasn't for Archie because he knew about the No-Maj world – he even loved the No-Maj world. Archie would be Archie in the wizarding world or outside of it, and he would be able to tilt his dreams, become something in either world. His identity wasn't founded on his magic – it was founded on something more, it was founded on his family, his friends, his Mum. It was built on acting and movies and books, with ideals and optimism and love, not with _magic. _Life as a No-Maj would be _different_, but it wouldn't be _bad_.

Swelling excitement was probably _not_ the emotion he should have on the day of closing submissions, he realized belatedly, wiping the grin he had off his face. How could he help it? No one was seeking death, so he felt like a great weight had been lifted off him. He would live. No matter what, he would _live_.

"Good morning, Your Honour," Percy said, taking his position behind the podium for the defense closings. "The defense agrees on the underlying facts of this case. Mr. Black indeed traded places with his cousin, Miss Potter, to allow her to go to Hogwarts. However, the defense submits that the underlying issue, the offence of blood identity theft, is unjust and should be struck.

"First, critically, blood status is an immutable characteristic. A person cannot choose their own parentage – depending on how blood status is defined, a person is a pureblood, a halfblood, or a Muggleborn. A Muggleborn cannot choose to become a pureblood, and vice versa. This engages fundamental considerations of equality, because under the current regime, a halfblood or a Muggleborn is unequal, and will never _be_ equal, in the eyes of the law."

Percy took a moment, clearing his throat, before he continued. "You have heard expert testimony, both from Master Albright and from Professor Newman, about the nature of Muggleborn and halfblood magic which is said to underpin the law. Both experts agree that Muggleborn and halfbloods have different magic than purebloods, but there is significant contention around whether it is, in fact, more dangerous. The majority consensus, as agreed by both experts, is that most Masters in the field do not consider halfbloods and Muggleborns to be any more dangerous than purebloods; even Master Albright acknowledged that his belief, that halfbloods and Muggleborns _are_ more dangerous, is in the minority. With respect to my friend's assertion that it is within the Wizengamot's rights to legislate based on the risk tolerance of our society, the defense respectively submits that the law is dangerously overbroad and acts to the detriment of not only halfbloods and Muggleborns, whose fundamental personal life choices are being infringed upon, but also purebloods and society as a whole.

"You have heard from Lord Dumbledore, whose career at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry spans just over seventy-five years. Throughout his tenure, he has seen Muggleborns and halfbloods at the school, and has seen these two groups disappear. There has been no change in the number of incidents and, remarkably, many of the most dangerous years for students have occurred recently, when Muggleborns and halfbloods were formally banned from the school. You have heard, too, from Miss Potter's closest friends, Mr. Malfoy and Miss Parkinson, that having Miss Potter at school posed them no threat, and in fact saved their lives. You have finally heard from Mr. Black himself, about the impact that these laws have had not only on him, but on Miss Potter and on others in their position.

"With respect to Miss Clearwater's assertion that Mr. Black is not in _locus standi_ in this case, I would note that Mr. Black is directly affected by the law at issue. The only reason he has not been charged with blood identity theft itself is that he is a pureblood and _cannot_ be charged with the offence. This is, on its very face, a discriminatory law that can only affect halfbloods and Muggleborns – and, at that, a halfblood or Muggleborn would need to take inordinate risks to challenge the law. The defense submits that there is no other reasonable and effective way to challenge the law other than through this proceeding here, today, and that to refuse to make a ruling on the basis of _locus standi_ would create a chilling effect where the law _could not_ be challenged.

"In conclusion, the defense submits that the blood identity theft law is discriminatory, dangerously overbroad, and unjust, and seeks that the law be struck. Thank you." Percy bowed slightly, then sat down.

Justice nodded slowly, considering. "Thank you, counsel. I shall reserve my decision until tomorrow. Court is dismissed until ten in the morning."

Archie stood and bowed, along with the rest of the courtroom. It was almost lunch, and he was free for the rest of the day, inasmuch as _house arrest_ could be considered _free_. He flashed a bright grin at Hermione, standing beside him on the other side of the low, wooden bar, and she shook her head at him with a slight sigh. On his other side, he saw that Justice was leaning down towards Lady Bones, saying something, but he couldn't make it out.

One more day. He breathed a sigh of relief, following Percy as he left the courtroom, and the refrain ran through his head. _One more dawn, one more day, one day more_. And he would live, whatever may come tomorrow.

XXX

Her boyfriend was insane, Hermione decided. Or an idiot, or – or she didn't know. He had spent the entire afternoon, beaming like a cheerful ray of sunshine, practically rolling around on the floor at Grimmauld Place like the giant dog that sometimes Sirius would turn into to tussle with him on the floor. He bounced around, singing snippets from both _Les Misérables_ and _Grease, _interrupted one of Francesca's experiments (much to her displeasure), and generally made a delighted nuisance of himself.

"They aren't seeking _death_, 'Mione," he said, wearing a bright grin. "It'll all be okay!"

"Loss of your magic is not a small thing, Archie," Hermione replied, with a sigh of exasperation. "Wouldn't you miss this? The magic, and Healing, and AIM…"

Archie shrugged. "Sure. But as long as there's _life_, there's always more. I don't have to have magic to be happy. Are you telling me you would like me any less if I weren't a mage?"

"Well, no," Hermione protested, but she stopped because Archie had thrown his arms around her and planted a kiss on her lips. It was a messy one, but she thought she would forgive him for it – this time. This time inevitably turned into the next, and the one after that, too, but he was so overwhelmingly enthusiastic, like an overeager puppy, that she just gave up. In truth, she rather liked it, even if she didn't think she should.

"I'd still become a Healer. Just a No-Maj one," he said, pulling back, his grey eyes serious. "And that's only if we don't win. Don't worry, 'Mione. I'll be fine."

Hermione smiled, a little helplessly, but let it go. If anyone were able to lose their magic and survive to smile about it, it would be Arcturus Rigel Black, but she suspected it would be much more difficult than he could imagine. Did he even have a No-Maj identity? In any case, the loss of his magic wouldn't hit him, not really, not until all his friends were heading back to AIM, until he was fully trying to integrate himself in the No-Maj world. Celebration, she thought, was premature.

The next morning came, as it always did, and a part of Hermione wanted to find a spell to drag the sun back below the horizon. She wasn't ready for this, she thought, rolling out of bed and putting on her best suit once more. It was only one more day – one last day, one final day, then they could close this door behind them and take their next steps forward. She hated this waiting; she hated not knowing what came next, how to plan for what came next. All she could do was grit her teeth and wait, and she _hated_ waiting. She liked _doing_.

She Flooed to Diagon Alley, meeting up with Derrick and Isran before going to court. Both of them were in robes – Derrick's were British wizarding, while Isran's were in the American style.

"How is he?" Derrick asked, with little preamble, a worried look on his face. "I know they aren't seeking death, but the loss of magic…"

"You know Arch." Hermione shook her head, heading towards the Wizarding Courts of Law. She expected they would follow her. "I don't know if he really understands what that would be like, but he finds the silver lining in everything. Is anyone else coming?"

"Saoirse from Ireland, but that's it." Isran frowned. "Sean is busy, and Toby's found a contact, or something, I think, said he has a meeting. He sounded odd in our last phone call."

"Should we check on him?" Hermione glanced over at the tall, brown man.

Isran thought for a moment. "It's too early to tell – I'll call him after court."

Hermione nodded, distracted. There were crowds milling about outside the courthouse - she knew it would be busy, but not to this extent. She ducked and wove her way to the front, a discreet Shield Charm helping her force her way through.

Oddly, most people weren't trying to get into the courthouse. There was a podium set up on the steps outside, and most people were only waiting. For the press conference, Hermione realized – whatever happened today, Lord Riddle would need to have a response. He needed to grab the narrative and shape the media response, as fast as possible. Hermione's lips tightened – that was not something she could combat, not directly. Her reports were being leaked, slowly and surely, piecemeal, by word of mouth, slipped papers, seditious pamphlets, but she couldn't get out in front of the narrative, not like this.

Thankfully, the courthouse was emptier, though far more people had shown up to hear the decision than any other trial day except the first one. Derrick and Isran joined Saiorse, neat in an emerald green dress with her honey-blonde hair pinned out of her face, in the row behind Sirius and Remus, while Hermione slid into her customary spot between them. She leaned over the wooden bar, touching Archie on the shoulder.

"Hermione!" Archie's face lit up, though his voice was quiet, calmer than she thought he would have been without an audience. "Did you see? Saoirse came!"

"I saw," Hermione assured him, eye crinkling a little in amusement. "Derrick and Isran too, but Sean and Toby couldn't make it."

"That's all right." Archie shrugged a little, and the bang of the courtroom doors broke into their quiet conversation. It was Aldon, moving mechanically to the dais. Archie took in a deep breath. "Showtime."

A few minutes, and even Hermione could tell that Justice's getup was the most formal it had ever been. The golden coronet on her head was ornate, instead of the simple circlet that she had worn before, and her dress was so white that it glowed, shimmered against the shine of gold. Her sword, too, was bedecked in gold and jewelled, the stone on top glowing with a strong, steady light. Her scales, massive, sat before her, and there were small, gold weights on each side. The scales moved today, tilting rhythmically from one side to another.

She didn't sit.

"Today," she said, facing the courtroom with her hands folded on the hilt of her blade. Hermione privately thought Justice had a flair for the dramatic – or maybe that was one of Aldon's traits, shining through even when possessed. "We stand in wait for a judgement. Arcturus Rigel Black, stand."

Archie stood.

"You have been accused of the crimes of aiding and abetting and conspiracy in the commission of blood identity theft. You do not disagree with the factual underpinnings of your case, but have pled not guilty on the basis that the laws are unjust and ought to be struck. You have summoned me to hear you and judge you accordingly.

"The prosecution submits, first, that the law is non-justiciable and that I cannot strike it. I do not accept this argument. The law is not intended to be used as a blunt instrument of authority, without regard for the grander principles: justice, freedom, respect for others. The law is a stabilizing structure, allowing people to pursue their legitimate claims of harm. Even the criminal law – in years past, when I sat in judgement of criminal acts among the Romans, a criminal charge still needed to be brought by the victim. A law that unfairly burdens an individual for little to no gain is not a law that supports the stability and health of the state.

"I have sat this trial, and I cannot avoid the simple conclusion: this is a crime which has no victim. Arcturus Rigel Black may have traded places with his cousin, but even Harriett Potter's closest friends are unable to list any true harm caused to them. Their feelings aside, having Harriett Potter with them at Hogwarts over the past four years has been an undeniable boon to their health and physical safety."

Hermione wasn't breathing, and her heart was beating erratically. Was this it? Were they, as Archie had always _believed_, winning? His back was stock still, and she wished she could see his face.

"I do not accept that these laws are justified in light of the theoretical evidence before me. In so saying, I make no assertions on the nature of magic, which is not something that can be argued and determined through law, and I express my strong and explicit disapproval that counsel have attempted such in this trial. However, based on the evidence presented before me, to the extent that the laws are based on a genuine concern that Muggleborns and halfbloods are _more dangerous_ than purebloods, they are grossly disproportionate and overbroad, and cannot be justified. The harms caused _by_ the law to Muggleborns and halfbloods is far greater than any harm to purebloods, and allowing the law to stand would be fundamentally unjust. Had blood identity theft been the charge before me, I would have found no difficulty in striking it down."

Hermione choked, started coughing. She didn't miss the change in tense – no, that was bad, that meant the laws would not be struck. Things were going so well, until that sentence!

"I cannot ignore that Arcturus Rigel Black has _not_ been charged with blood identity theft. Mr. Black is a pureblood and in fact _cannot _be charged with blood identity theft. He has been charged with aiding and abetting and conspiracy to commit blood identity theft, which is not the same. _Locus standi_ is a critical principle of law: a person may not challenge a law unless they are directly subject to it and to its effects. Without being directly subject to the law, we can only consider its indirect effects, we are unable to consider the impact of the law with the best available evidence. Without a full appreciation of the direct impact of the old law, we are unable to make new, good, law.

"Since Mr. Black is not a direct subject of the law, I must consider three things to determine whether Mr. Black is in _locus standi_ to challenge the law: whether there is a serious issue raised as to the justice of the law, whether Mr. Black has a genuine interest in the law, and whether there is any other way that the issue may be brought to court.

"I have no difficulty in finding that Mr. Black meets the first two branches of the test. However, he does not meet the third. There is at least one, obvious, person who could bring this legal challenge and who could provide further, more fulsome evidence of the impact of the blood discrimination laws: Harriett Potter herself. I understand that Miss Potter has even been charged with blood identity theft, but that she is no longer in the jurisdiction. Having said my remarks in _obiter_, I see no reason why Miss Potter cannot simply return to the jurisdiction, invoke me, and challenge the blood identity theft law directly. In these circumstances, I cannot find that Arcturus Rigel Black is in _locus standi_ to bring forth a legal challenge to the blood identity theft laws, and I decline to strike the law at this time."

No. That was _stupid!_ Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, a mix of both rage and despair coursing through her. That was a _stupid, ridiculous_, _overly technical_ basis for refusing to strike the laws now, and Hermione had no delusions about whether Harry Potter would return to do as Archie did. Even if Archie was able to contact her and ask, the fact remained that Harry had been charged with far more than just blood identity theft – that was only a few of the charges in more than a hundred. Not to mention that, based on the little she knew of Archie's fabled cousin, despite Archie's rose-tinted glasses, she questioned whether Harry was the sort of person who would put herself on the line for something like this unless she was forced to it. Just as Archie wasn't Harry, Harry also was not Archie.

"I do, therefore, have to find Mr. Black guilty of the crimes alleged. I do not, however, ignore the fact that had blood identity theft been the charge in front of me, I would have struck it. I take this into account for the purposes of sentencing." Justice slowed down, taking a deep breath, studying Archie closely with her hawk-like yellow eyes. "The prosecution seeks a wholesale loss of magic, and the defense has made no alternate suggestion in the event of a guilty verdict. I will _not_ be taking the whole of Mr. Black's magic. Indeed, I find it most appropriate that, since Mr. Black amply employed his Metamorphmagus ability as part of the ruse, that he sacrifice his gift, and I sentence him accordingly."

The movement was small, a tiny _come-hither _sort of movement, and Archie staggered, gasping, both hands flat on the counsel table in front of him. He coughed, choking – Percy pounded him on the back a couple times, until a tiny spark, a pinpoint, of blue light came out, floating in the air towards Justice. Hermione swallowed – she was not squeamish, but something about this felt wrong, terribly wrong, and she wanted to vomit herself. She could see that, as the pinpoint of light soared towards the dais, the scales slowed down, stopping when the ball of light hovered over one of the golden plates.

"Judgement is rendered. Court is now dismissed." She said, then she tilted her head up with a small smile, glancing up at the courtroom around her. "Counsel, I thank you for the opportunity. It had been far too long. But do get me one of my _female_ Chosen, next time."

There was a clatter of thunder, a burst of wind from the dais, Aldon collapsed, and everything went dark.

XXX

Draco didn't comment, not until they were out of that dreadful courtroom. It had been far too crowded in there, and even with the Malfoy name, he was only able to secure a seat for himself and Pansy at the back. He should have been among the first out, but even that – when the lights had gone out, it hadn't been _panic_, exactly, but people had mobbed the doors. He couldn't see where Black and his supporters, including that awful woman he called his girlfriend, had gone, nor Rosier, and it was all he could do to keep a hold of Pansy's hand as their parents shielded them and shuffled out.

Lord Riddle would be hosting a press conference in an hour on the courthouse steps, but Draco wasn't interested in that. He knew what Lord Riddle would say already – they would say that Justice herself had declined to strike the laws, that Black had been convicted, found guilty, guilty, _guilty_, and that Black had been suitably punished with the loss of his Family's gift.

Draco didn't care about that. He cared about _Rigel_ – Harry. She could come home. She could come home, and even if Draco couldn't make the charges go away by that point, she could challenge the law. She would be fine, and they could always pass a new law. The old one was too much of a blanket anyway – maybe what they should do instead was _test_ Muggleborns and halfbloods before they were allowed to go to Hogwarts or take jobs in the Ministry and so on. Most Muggleborns and halfbloods would fail it anyway, but it would let the truly exceptional ones, like Harry, shine as they should.

"So?" he whispered to Pansy, whom he had tugged a short way into Knockturn Alley, in front of a blank, closed shop. An apothecary, _The Serpent's Storeroom_, or something like that. "What did you think?"

"I'm still thinking it through," Pansy replied slowly. "It's certainly interesting, but I need to consider it from all angles."

"But it means she can come home, even if we can't get the charges dropped," Draco pushed, looking for confirmation. "She can just challenge the laws, and it'll be fine!"

Pansy was silent for a moment. "Don't let your father hear you saying that, Drake. Do you _really_ want the laws struck?"

"We can always pass new laws, Pans." Draco smiled slightly. "The new laws can be better ones – more tailored. I mean, Harry was an exception anyway, so the laws shouldn't have been applied to _her_."

Pansy gave him a look, gently amused, though Draco felt a wave of distinct exasperation from her. "I don't know. Don't you remember her first year, those first few weeks when she couldn't do magic? Anyway, when has Harry ever wanted that kind of attention? Her cousin is quite different, it seems, and I still don't know if it's a good idea for her to come back. Blood identity theft is only a few of the offences she has been charged with, and I don't think she could strike most of the others. There are perfectly good reasons to uphold "healing without a license" as a charge, or fraud, or trespassing… and from a practical perspective, how are we even going to reach her to tell her about the decision?"

She paused, her blue eyes travelling to one side in thought. "I'm also… somewhat concerned for Aldon. I don't think possession was easy for him, and… well."

Draco snorted in derision. He had never been on the best of terms with Pansy's upper-year friend, and discovering his _talent_, and subsequent blood-status, only firmed his dislike. Rosier – _Blake _– had to have known about Harry, known for years, and he had _used it_ to take advantage of her. He had _known_ that Harry would not say no to him, which was probably why he had harassed her in the first place. The fact that _Rigel_ was a girl only made that all so much worse.

"Know any other Truth-Speakers, Drake?" Pansy's voice was musical, amused, but he felt nothing like that from her. "He would have to do it again, you know. Be possessed."

Draco groaned, a noise of frustration. She was right, damn it. He didn't know any other Truth-Speakers, so Blake it would have to be.

"We can deal with that later," Draco decided with a sigh. "We still have to _find_ her first. Find her, and bring her home."

XXX

Archie wasn't a Metamorphmagus anymore. The first thing he had done, when they had slipped out of the courthouse from a back exit to avoid the show of a press conference in the front (of all people, Clearwater had shown them the way out), was try to morph his features, thinking hard on his _Harry Potter_ body. It didn't work.

It didn't work, and that was, weirdly, _awesome_. He didn't have a cool gift anymore, but he didn't _need_ it anymore, and it wasn't like he couldn't disguise himself – he still knew about six different spells for that, excluding Polyjuice. But there was something so _nice _about that, something symbolic. Archie didn't have to hide himself all the time, and, in fact, he _couldn't_ anymore. That was _beautiful_.

He could still do magic. He tried the minute he came home, Healing the remaining ache in his solar plexus where Justice had punched him, pulling at his magic, sorting out his gift. He didn't even think he had _lost_ any magic – whatever she had done, she had left him with same core size he had had before, he just didn't have his gift anymore. Whatever. He didn't care.

The trial was over! He wasn't under house arrest anymore! And even if he had _technically_ been convicted, that ruling had been _amazing_. Saiorse had run off to the closest red telephone booth in No-Maj London, calling in a report to the _Nuachtliter Draoi_, and Derrick and Isran had disappeared for the rest of the afternoon to draft a report that could be quietly spread throughout Wizarding Britain without being traced. Hermione, too, had given him the biggest, tightest hug she could, whispered a desperate apology about needing to report to the BIA, and run off.

That didn't matter, though – they were _celebrating_ tonight, a small, impromptu party which, with all of Archie's friends, turned out to be slightly less small than he had expected. Saoirse showed up first, within two hours, carrying a crate of something called _Guinness_ under one arm.

"Not sure if you can drink, but this calls for celebration," she said, blue eyes bright. "Sean says congratulations, by the way, a balanced account is going to be all over the _Irish Gales_ tomorrow and mine will be in the Gaelic newspaper. He's sorry he can't make it, just couldn't get away."

"It's fine!" Archie said, grinning widely as he motioned her in. "Dad! Can I have some Guinness?"

Dad picked up one of the bottles, looking it over critically, before he sighed. "Just _one_, Archie."

It turned out Archie didn't even like Guinness, though he liked it more than the regular beer that he had drunk with the German team during the Triwizard Tournament. He managed to swallow about a third of it, before giving up and giving the rest to John, who genuinely seemed to enjoy it.

Toby had shown up, an hour afterwards – Archie wasn't even sure how he had gotten to London, since as far as he knew Toby wasn't connected to the Floo and couldn't Apparate, and a train from Glasgow to London was nearly six hours. Even getting to Hogsmeade, probably the closest Floo point to him, should have been an issue, but the Scottish boy waved it off.

"Don't worry about it, Arch," he said, his Scottish burr thicker than usual, as he pulled out a beautifully decorated bottle from his leather jacket. "I'll have to train back, but look, I brought Scotch! Hey, do you think you can put me up for the night, or should I try to get a space at the youth hostel again? I mean, depending on how late we go, I can probably kip at the train station, too."

"_Dad!_" Archie yelled, turning back into the house. "Can we get a room ready for my friend Toby? And also, can I have some scotch?"

"Yes, and no," Dad said reappearing from around the corner. "I'm claiming the scotch for Remus and I, I'm afraid."

"I'll sneak you some later," Toby whispered with a wink, even as Archie grinned.

Derrick had turned up, soon after that, carrying four huge bags of crisps and three plastic bottles of Coke, which made Archie light up like a beacon.

"Wow, thanks!" he said, gesturing for the older boy to come in. "I love Coke – everyone else so far has brought something alcoholic, so it's great!"

"Er, about that." Derrick fished around in his jacket, pulling out a small, dark bottle. "Rum. Can't have Coke without rum."

Archie laughed, and ran to get big bowls for the crisps. Hermione, of course, frowned at the selection the moment she arrived, a plate of chopped vegetables with dip under one arm.

"Coke and crisps, Derrick? Really?" She wrinkled her nose, looking at them.

"I like Coke, 'Mione!" Archie protested, already on his second glass. His eyes were wide, and he felt _great_.

"And you're high on sugar, Archie," Hermione said, looking him over. "It's all empty calories, the carbonation is bad for your digestive system, and you're going to get cavities. I'm shocked you don't already have cavities."

Archie pouted. "But I got – okay, I was convicted today, but I basically didn't lose anything, and we got a good ruling, right?!"

Hermione gave him a look of exasperated affection, setting her vegetables and dip on the counter. "It was a good ruling, but the SOW Party is already spinning it as a victory on their end, so it's a bit of a mixed success."

"It's better that way, though, Hermione," Saiorse said, her Irish lilt more prominent three bottles of Guinness in. Her eyes were shining, a little dreamy, though Archie thought Dad and Uncle Remus were keeping an eye on her, so it was fine. "If they can spin it as a success, they're less likely to try to come down on anyone else. Hey, has anyone told you that you're _gorgeous?_ I would do you, I would."

"Hands off, Saoirse," Archie broke in, slinging one arm around Hermione. "She's _my _girlfriend."

Saoirse sighed. "Should have made a move on you during Triwizard," she replied lightly, shaking her head. "Where's the other girl? Francesca. She's super pretty too, maybe she'll be more receptive to my advances."

"John and Chess went out to get a spread of food – Middle Eastern, I think." Archie smiled apologetically. "But I think Chess is probably the straightest girl I have ever met."

Saoirse sighed again, putting her head down in her arms. "Why are all the cute girls _straight_? What's so good about boys anyway? They have no emotional intelligence and never deal with their feelings until dumb shit happens."

"I think I ought to be taking offense at that," Uncle Remus commented, his voice mild over a small glass of scotch over ice.

"Come now, Saiorse." Dad leaned across the table towards her, a slight, teasing, spark in his eyes. "You're too young to be so cynical. Maybe you should be looking to _men_ instead of _boys_." He winked, and Saoirse let out a full-throated roar of laughter.

"I don't do dick," she replied, with a wink of her own. "But if I did, I would consider it. Sorry, Lord Black."

"Please, from someone so lovely? Just Sirius."

John and Chess reappeared soon after that, three huge trays of food in tow; more rice, flavoured heavily with spice, decorated with big balls of falafel, kebbeh, kofta, shish tawouk, butter-soaked potatoes, warm chicken and beef shawarma, pitas with hummus and moutabbal.

"The meat is halal," Chess commented, with a worried frown. "I don't know if Isran keeps halal? But I figured it was better to be safe than otherwise…"

"He doesn't," Hermione replied briskly, helping their two friends unload their goods onto the kitchen table. "He's not that religious, it's mainly a family thing, for him."

Isran was there half an hour later, a cake under his arm, decorated with the words "Congratulations!" and, weirdly, underneath, "Here's to good behaviour time!" with a design of grey handcuffs. Archie took one look at it and burst into peals of laughter, while his older friend shrugged, somewhat helplessly.

"I told them it was to celebrate the end of a friend's criminal trial," he admitted, a little embarrassed. "She asked if you got off, and I said no, but the sentence was really good and came down basically to time served, so I think she thought that this would be a good idea."

"It's _awesome_," Archie confirmed, taking it from him and setting it the kitchen counter. Hermione's vegetables and dip had made it onto the kitchen table, along with a pile of plates and the non-alcoholic drinks, so the cake only shared space with the crisps and alcohol. "I love it, it's hilarious!"

Percy showed up, a little after that, tumbling through the Floo and looking more than a little harassed as four of his siblings followed through soon after. "I'm sorry, Archie – the twins insisted on coming, and then because they came, my younger brother Ron wanted to come too, and then of course Ginny insisted…"

Archie only paused for the briefest moment, then he smiled and welcomed them all in. He didn't really know them, but then again, Percy had done_ brilliantly _through the trial, and he had met the others before, while pretending to be Rigel. He liked the twins, from what he knew of them, and Ron and Ginny were Harry's friends, he thought. "Yeah, of course! Come on in – we've got tons of food, though I think all the Guinness Saoirse brought is gone and they're mostly through the scotch, too."

"We, uh, brought Butterbeer and Firewhiskey," one of the twins said, lifting a case and a bottle, eyeing Archie closely, while Ron and Ginny were looking at him with looks like they didn't quite know what to make of him. The kitchen was already pretty crowded, with Saoirse and Derrick now arguing loudly about Quidditch, and five Weasleys only made it more so. "You look … nothing like Rigel."

"I know, and isn't that great?" Archie beamed. "Welcome to Grimmauld Place! Most of the people here are my friends from AIM and the Triwizard Tournament, but I'm sure you'll be fine, everyone is really friendly."

"Um, sure," Ron said, a little awkward, lifting a covered casserole dish. "Our mum also sent this with us, so…"

"Thanks!" Archie grinned, taking it from Ron and pushing some of the trays on the kitchen table to find space for it. Uncovering it revealed a lasagna. "We have more food than we know what to do with – it's fine, but we'll need more drinks soon, I think…"

"Oh, Weasleys," Derrick interrupted, looking over, a slightly considering look on his face. His voice had a slight bite. "Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"_Blood traitors," _one of the twins snarked in reply. "_Proud_ blood-traitors, you know. Zero prestige. Besides, we all know Cantankerous Nott was a nutjob, he _definitely _snuck the Notts on."

Derrick burst into laughter, clapping the twin on the back. "You're cool. Derrick Holden – I just graduated from AIM, but I'm still looking for work. Come on, argue Quidditch with Saoirse and I, she insists that the Irish National Team can still knock England out, even if Moran's retired."

"No way," the other twin said, shaking his head, as the Quidditch circle expanded to include the two of them, Ron and Ginny hovering awkwardly nearby. "Absolutely not, the beauty of the Irish team was that their Chasers worked in perfect sync, it'll take them years to train someone to fit in as well as Moran did…"

Percy had disappeared, but Archie suspected he would find the barrister already talking politics with Hermione and Isran somewhere. He had no interest in political manoeuvring, so he wandered through the house, finding John, Chess and Toby as they lounged in the sitting room, talking about the summer movies that had come out.

"You _have_ to go see Forrest Gump," Toby was saying, making room on the sofa for Archie. John was in a deep armchair, Chess perched on his armrest. "I don't know how much I can emphasize this – that movie is going to be a classic, I mean I know the premise doesn't sound like your kind of movie, John, but you _have_ to see it. It's _so _good."

"I'm off to Germany in a week." John hesitated. "Going to see Gerry in Frankfurt. I don't think it'll be playing there..."

"I'll definitely go see it – the theatre I usually go to doesn't show the newest stuff, though, it takes a few weeks. When did it come out?" Archie said eagerly. "Chess mentioned that there's a new Disney movie too, a few weeks ago, I'm going to see that, too."

"What are you, six?" Toby laughed, even as Chess scowled at him, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. "No, calm down, Francesca. I don't mean it. _The Lion King_ was pretty good, I liked it too."

"The music was good," Chess added, relaxing, apparently appeased. "I didn't like it as much as Aladdin or Beauty and the Beast, though… but, I mean, _A Whole New World_ is hard to beat."

Archie agreed, with a grin, launching into song, throwing one hand out towards her, as if they were on a stage. "I can show you the world, shining, shimmering and splendid…"

Chess, with a tiny smile, joined him, even if she didn't take his hand. She wasn't a strong singer – she could carry a tune, but she sounded like she belonged in a choir or ensemble, not on centre stage. Even on the songs she loved most, there was a softness, hesitance about her voice that didn't translate well to the stage. "A whole new world, a dazzling place I never knew…"

Their voices drew others into the sitting room, and from there, they really had no choice but to head to the back garden, break out Chess' CD player that she was experimenting with and put on some music, and for John to bring out his guitar. Archie sang – both accompanied and not, and sometimes he or John, the only boys with enough mastery of the air-hardening charm, joined Saoirse and Chess in the air. Chess was the more technically proficient dancer, Archie thought, but Saiorse held her own in their impromptu dance battle, her Gaelic chant raining flower petals on them all, even as Chess called thunder and lightning for a more powerful performance. Dad and the Weasley twins, whom Archie had not talked to enough to work out which one was which (not helped by the fact that they were definitely switching identities at whim), were interested in trying it, so Archie taught them the basic spell and started them on the first stair climb ascent and descent. All three of them fell a lot, just as Archie had for weeks, while Ron watched, mouth agape as he looked between them and the tricks the Chess and Saoirse were now throwing out mid-air. Ginny stood, arms crossed over her chest, a slight scowl on her face.

"You want to try, too?" Archie offered with a small smile, trying to bring her into the conversation. Even as her twin brothers had thrown themselves into the party, meeting everyone, cracking jokes, and generally adapting to the new social situation, and Ron had seemed interested, if taken aback, she had been a little stand-off-ish, a bit apart from everyone.

"No, thanks," she said, shaking her head. "Seems like a useless waste of magic to me."

"I don't think anything so beautiful is useless," Archie replied, raising an eyebrow. "Beautiful things give us hope, they inspire us and make life worth living. I love music, I love watching them dance."

"Arch!" Dad was calling him, so Archie smiled a quick goodbye and headed over. "Arch, let's do a men's dance battle! I think I've got the spell down!"

"Ugh, no, Dad!" Archie yelled back, laughing. "All the dancing I do is pairs, I don't know any tricks for the air!"

It was a good night, a perfect night, full of everyone who had loved him and supported him through the trial. He ate too much food and cake and drank too much Coke, he talked about all the things he loved and avoided Hermione's political discussions as much as he could. He sang and he danced and he watched others dancing, and he ended the night with one arm around his girlfriend, looking up at the night sky. They couldn't see much of the stars, the light pollution from London being too much, but he still knew that they were there.

He was the luckiest person in the world, he thought. He had friends, best friends, a whole community behind him. He had Dad and Uncle Remus on his other side, who loved him so much and supported him through the trial, and he knew that Harry, wherever she was, was safer and happier than she had probably been in years. He had Hermione, his love, whose strength shored him up when he needed it most.

There was one other person who should have been there, though, and Archie was ashamed to realize that he had completely forgotten him, over the excitement of the afternoon. Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, newest outcast of British Wizarding Society, should have been there too, and Archie had no idea where he had gone. After the trial, he seemed to have disappeared.

"Hey, Dad," he said, giving his Dad a nudge with one shoulder. "Do we know what happened to Aldon? Where he's staying, and so on?"

"He's probably with his biological mother," Dad replied quietly, but he shook his head. "My usual sources are silent, and I don't know anything about Christina Blake, or where she lives. She's not listed in any of the wizarding directories, and my last few owls didn't get an answer. But I'll try again tomorrow morning, Arch. We'll find him and give him whatever help he needs, I promise."

XXX

_AN: And thus concludes the trial arc. One of the most fascinating things I found about this particular part is that any lawyers I told about the trial arc immediately said "But Archie doesn't have standing!" whereas any non-lawyers immediately went "No, that's stupid, what does that even mean?!" So this is actually... a very realistic decision on Archie's charges. Thank you goes out to the crew of lawyers on this: JAP, SHL and REW, who took the time to read the closings and the decision, and as per usual to meek_bookworm, faithful beta-reader (who still swears that this trial was not boring). Review with your comments and criticisms, and onward we go! Boring trial chapters completed!_

_Next Chapter: Even when the dark comes crashing through / When you need a friend to carry you / And when you're broken on the ground / You will be found (You Will Be Found, from the Dear Evan Hansen musical)._


	6. Chapter 6

Aldon woke up.

The ceiling was white. His sheets, his blankets were white and textured, and his pillows were too big. He was still in his robes, heavily wrinkled, and his underclothes did _not_ match this particular robe. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. He felt weak, exhausted, as if he had recently gotten over a long sickness. A quick look inside at his core showed that it was half-empty, still regenerating.

But he was himself. He didn't know how much time had passed, but he was blessedly, blessedly himself. He was in full control of everything, his thoughts were _his own_ again, the horrifying distance between himself and the world was gone. He lifted an arm, and he was so relieved that it worked – it worked, without any strange heaviness, any resistance from the _presence _with whom he had been sharing his body. He wasn't helpless anymore – he could do things, he could speak and the words would be his, he could move at his own will. He was awake, and he was Aldon Étienne Rosier, once again.

Or, well. Not _Rosier. _Blake.

The reality of the last few weeks slammed into him. He groaned, sitting up and pulling his knees to his chest, resting his head on them. He remembered. He remembered goddamn fucking everything, he just hadn't been able to do anything about it. He was too trapped in Justice, too wrapped up in the trial – he had known what was happening, he had watched his life collapse around him, but he had done nothing about it. He _could_ do nothing about it. He hadn't even _cared_ to do anything about it. Shit. Well, goddamn fucking shit in a fucking shitstorm in a fucking hellhole of shit.

He wasn't Aldon Étienne Rosier anymore. He was Aldon Étienne Blake. He was living with his biological mother, Christina Blake, who said he could just call her _Christie_. He had been disowned, he was now _persona non grata_ in Wizarding Britain; he was non-noble, a known halfblood, a Truth-Speaker. _Fuck. Fucking goat-fucking shit and fuck. _He didn't know enough swear words for this, and if he was the sort of person who got up and threw or kicked things, he would be doing so now. _Fuck_. He needed a drink.

The door to his room slammed open, and he jumped a little. Archie stood in the doorway, and there was a brief moment of pause, which was when Aldon knew that Archie knew that he was awake. Then, the Black Heir, quite indecorously, made a noise like a _whoop_ and threw himself onto the bed on top of Aldon, whose reaction time was just a little too slow to roll out of the way or otherwise defend himself.

"Thank god you're awake, Aldon!" Archie chattered, throwing his arms around him. Pulling back, a little groggily, Aldon could see the happy light dancing in Archie's grey eyes. At least someone was happy. "It's my _birthday_ today, you know, and John's going to Germany tomorrow to visit his boyfriend and won't be back for three weeks, so now you _have _to come, you just _have_ to, and that means we have to give you a makeover!"

There were words, and Aldon didn't understand them. Or rather, he understood most of them, _makeover_ being an obvious exception, but they didn't make sense all together. He glanced over at the doorway, where John was leaning against one side, dressed casually in a thin _t-shirt_ and short pants with what looked like a half-dozen pockets. _Cargo shorts_, he remembered they were called.

One word stuck out in his brain. It wasn't a word he typically used, and it was in the new dialect of words he had had to learn to keep up with Archie and his friends. He even knew what it meant. "Boyfriend?"

Boyfriend: a romantic entanglement with someone of the male gender.

"Oh, yeah," John replied, entirely nonchalant, though he had a slight smirk. "Gerhart Riemann. He was the spokesperson for the Schwarzenstein team during the Triwizard Tournament."

Aldon's brain stuttered, fixed on his words, and he knew that John was speaking truth. He even vaguely remembered who Gerhardt Riemann was – blonde hair, a patrician nose stood out in his memory. "The handsome one," he said slowly, and John smirked a little deeper. "Er, and Francesca doesn't mind…?"

"The monster?" John shrugged carelessly, though his brown eyes looked as though he was hiding some secret laughter. "Why would she? She encouraged me to go, said she was tired of my moping."

"You and Francesca are not…" He hesitated. Betrothals were not usually something that one asked about – they were either announced formally, or people learned about them when told by one of the parties, or they were read in the parties' behaviour. He had assumed that John and Francesca had a longstanding arrangement, and there was no reason he would have paid attention to American announcements.

"Are not what?" John's face was a study in innocence, very badly so, and Archie looked between the two of them, confused. Aldon scowled slightly; John knew exactly what Aldon was asking, but he was going to force him to say it anyway. That was right, he remembered; the arse had been reading his mind for weeks before saying anything. That was... somewhat embarrassing. John's expression slipped into a smirk, evidently catching the last thought.

"Involved?" He said eventually. It wasn't as odd of a word as a _betrothal_ for this … this liberal group of people.

"Oh, gods, no." John made a face, even as Archie burst into laughter. "Eugh, Chess is like my little sister. I love her to pieces, but she drives me insane, her and her precious experiments and incomprehensible inventions and never-ending research."

Aldon scowled a little deeper. Those inventions – he hadn't even had a chance to ask her about her ACD yet, even though he had signed the non-disclosure forms for her, and she had seemed so skittish he hadn't wanted to ask her so soon after handing them off to her. He didn't know much about the ACD yet, but it was obviously remarkable, and _not_ deserving of such a dismissive attitude. Still, he ignored it for the moment – there was a more important point of note. "So, she is not..."

"If you're asking me if she's single, I'm telling you that I will _wreck _you if you put one finger on her," John replied immediately, the smirk dropping off his face. His voice was mild, compared to what he said, but he was being perfectly honest. "I already have enough wannabe suitors to deal with at AIM."

"Isn't it mostly Faleron, though?" Archie raised an eyebrow. "And she's only six months younger than you – she's older than me! She can date whoever she wants, John."

John scowled at him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Faleron is only first in line, and the only reason I haven't managed to deal with him yet is that he beats me in the duelling arena once in a blue moon. You're starting to sound like Hermione."

Archie rolled his eyes, and Aldon let it go. He had just connected it with his present circumstances anyway – he wasn't Aldon Étienne Rosier, wealthy scion of House Rosier anymore. He was just Aldon Blake, and he was pretty sure that, other than the bag of savings he had in his trunk, which he had carried in his pocket to the first day of trial and had to be around here somewhere, he was penniless. He wasn't in any position to think about anything like courting someone, even without an annoying Natural Legilimens that saw himself as the person in question's bodyguard.

"Anyway, let's go, let's go!" Archie bounced a little on the bed beside him. "Get up, we have to give you a makeover. Wear these!" He shoved a set of clothes at him, which he had picked up off a chair near his bed – a t-shirt, something that Aldon recognized as _jeans. _He made a face.

"_No, _thank you," he said, trying to hand them back, but Archie held his hands up and wouldn't take them. "I have my own clothing, and I do not need a … _makeover_. Whatever that may be."

"No, you definitely need new clothes." Archie shook his head, undeterred. "And a haircut, it'll make you feel better, and if you don't, how can you come to my birthday party?"

"Why would I need new clothes?" Aldon frowned. There was something else going on here, and he didn't think he liked it. He looked down at the t-shirt and jeans – it was a plain black shirt, where the collar formed a V, and the jeans were darker than the ones he had seen in the few shops in Diagon Alley that sold Muggle clothes. Not that he had ever gone into them. "And why would I even go to your birthday party?"

Archie placed one hand on his chest, leaning back, his face an abject mix of shock and sadness. "You wouldn't want to come to my _birthday party?_"

His voice pitched upwards, thick with tears, and he sniffled dramatically. To Aldon's horror, there were even tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Even if Aldon _knew_ it was faked, his gift and his common sense in complete accord, he still found himself caving, just a little. It was the same look that Harriett had used, now and then in her first few years at school, to get what she wanted, morphed onto another face.

"I'm not sure why I should," Aldon retorted, pushing the boy gently off his bed with a soft thud. "And even if I did, why would I need new clothes? Why couldn't I just wear my robes?"

"First, I think all your robes need to be washed, or mended – Justice was not particularly kind to them," John started, but Archie interrupted, all hint of his faked tears gone.

"And my birthday party is in _No-Maj London_." Archie beamed, picking himself off the ground easily. "_All you can eat _dim sum_ and _sushi at a place Chess found in Chinatown! Come on, we need to get you No-Maj clothes you actually like, and your hair is hopelessly out of style in the No-Maj world. You have to blend in!"

Aldon blinked at him, a blunt, angry refusal on his lips, and then he paused.

He wasn't Aldon Rosier anymore. He was Aldon Blake. It didn't matter what he goddamn well did, it didn't matter if he went out to the Muggle world. He had, admittedly, not given much thought to it before – when he was at Hogwarts, or before, it simply hadn't occurred to him. What else was there, but the Wizarding world? Nothing they had could possibly measure up to magic, he would have thought. Nothing worth knowing, nothing worth seeing. Nothing he had to trouble himself over, nothing worth his time or attention, nothing he couldn't get, better, in the Wizarding world. Even knowing he was a halfblood, he had given no thought whatsoever to the Muggle world.

But moments stuck out, in the last two months, and he couldn't help but be a little curious. Little things, here and there – forget the clothes, all the clothes that Archie or John or Hermione wore were ugly as sin, but the music pouring out of Archie's book, or the songs he sang. Not _Grease_, which he still thought was horrendously inappropriate, but some of the snatches of the other things he had heard were interesting. The dance, that he had walked into Francesca doing in the backyard – he hadn't seen magic done in that way, he hadn't recognized the box that she had playing the music, or the music itself. It hadn't been his taste, the music, but she had taken it and made something beautiful out of it, all grace and elegance in the air. The myriad _things_ that Archie and his friends talked about: telephones, which let them talk to people across the ocean, without need for a blood-magic based communication orb. Televisions, streaming the Muggle news and more, audio and visual, into people's home every night. The _Internet _which let Francesca send work to her father in California.

Archie was a dreamer. He always talked about the fantastical nature of it all, where it was all going next – robots and spaceships and the tales of tomorrow. Archie loved the _science fiction. _Aldon was less interested in the stories Muggles told about the future, and more interested in what they had _now, _what they could do _now_. He knew next to nothing about Muggle science and technology, but he knew enough to know that it was not _nothing_. Muggles had been to the moon, and wizards hadn't. Francesca had even said, more than a month ago, that the ACD took a lot of No-Maj science to understand.

No one would judge him if he just… went and took a look at the Muggle world. He wasn't Aldon Rosier, noble heir anymore. He might be poor, he might have no political power, he might have been disowned, but he had a sense of freedom, of _opportunity_ that was never there before. He was Aldon Blake, and he could be whoever he damn well wanted to be.

A change of style, of clothes, that didn't seem all that bad. It would be good, marking a change, marking himself as _Aldon Blake _and not Aldon Rosier. It would show he wasn't ashamed of who he was – fine, the money and power that came with being Aldon Rosier was nice, but Aldon was smart. He had a job lined up, in the field he was interested in. Christie supported him, and he even had a sense that his family, whatever they might be saying publicly, had not abandoned him. He still had a half-dozen good things, and this day would have come eventually. Aldon was a halfblood bastard – that was true. But he was also so much more than that.

He had _nothing_ to be ashamed of, and a new look would go a long way to showing it. Wearing his old clothes, keeping his old hairstyle, all of that would be like telling the world that he couldn't let go of his past. It would be like pretending nothing had changed, acting as though he was still publicly the Rosier Heir, when everyone and their mother knew that that was not the case.

Fuck that. He didn't know what the Muggle world entailed, or what Archie had in mind, but he _refused_ to cling to a noble title and position he didn't have anymore. That was pathetic, screaming of weakness, and Aldon was not weak.

He was Aldon fucking Blake, and he wasn't fucking ashamed of himself.

"Ugh, fine," he snapped, throwing his covers off and waving the two of them out of his room. "But you're paying for the wardrobe and hair."

It turned out that Christie Blake lived in Muggle London anyway – a penthouse, John called it, in what Archie said was a wealthy area of town called Marylebone. The two of them had taken the train, the _Underground,_ to him, after having gotten directions from Christie. It had apparently taken some days for them to find him, because Christie had been unsure whether she should be replying to Lord Black's owls. In the end, Lord Black had tracked her, in Animagus form, from one of her meetings at the Rosier Investment Trust where she had been finalizing documents, then terrified her by reappearing closer to her penthouse for a "friendly chat".

"Apparently, your mum tried to hex him, but Dad's still got his Auror instincts." Archie chuckled, leading him down quaint, beautiful streets that, in all honesty, didn't seem all that different from Diagon Alley. "Dad apologized a lot, explained things, and she told us where we could find you. You're not connected to Floo, by the way – no fireplace. A lot of foreign-trained Muggleborns and halfbloods don't, and there's an extra layer of security to keeping your house in the Muggle world. Most pureblood supremacists just don't know how to navigate the No-Maj world to find them, plus it means you get to have telephones and televisions and things! Can you imagine – having something to play _movies_ inside your house? I would watch _so many_ movies if I could."

"Your workplace is going to be in No-Maj London, too," John added, off-hand. "Christie asked us to outfit you for that too – she's worried that they're going to get blowback in the Wizarding world or be attacked by extremists, so even if they have a post-box for owls in Diagon Alley, your offices themselves are in the City. Twenty-fourth floor, very fancy. You're going to have an amazing view of the Thames."

That made an odd sort of sense, Aldon thought, looking around curiously. So far, the Muggle world really didn't seem that different from the Wizarding one. Fine, there were no flashing illusions, fantastic things, but there were other things that were just as new. There were lights on the roads, green, yellow, and red, where Archie and John stopped automatically to let the large, animal-like machines pass by them. _Cars_, Aldon thought – those had to be cars. He hadn't seen one close up, before. The cars stopped on the red light, and Aldon noticed another sign turn white, the shape of a man appearing, and people started crossing the road. Ah – red for the vehicles to stop, to allow pedestrians to cross, and the green signal meant they could go. Yellow must be some sort of transition point between the two.

His clothes were weird, though they seemed to fit in very well, even a little more casual than most of the passersby. He liked the t-shirt, sort of – if only it covered more of his skin, he would be quite happy with it. Many of the people around him had covering sweaters, or jackets or things, and he did wish he had something equally light and airy to cover his arms. He didn't like the jeans at all, but they seemed to be extremely common, so he wasn't sure how he would get around them, if this was how he was to dress to blend in. He would have to look into it farther, because the jeans were really very stiff and uncomfortable. Not a single person on the street was dressed in robes, or anything like robes, unfortunately.

At least he could wear his own boots. John and Archie had deemed as being _inappropriate for the season, but not out of place, _which he hoped meant he could keep wearing them. But very few people on the streets around him were wearing boots, mainly wearing the things like Archie called _trainers_ and John called _running shoes_. He thought those were ugly, too, but would there be any way of avoiding them, if he needed to live in the Muggle world? He desperately hoped so.

"You actually live pretty close to Oxford Street, which is one of the better shopping areas in London," Archie remarked, looking around. "We'll show you the Underground later – John says we're close enough to walk everywhere today, but I get lost less on the Underground. I don't really have much of a sense of direction."

"A lot of mages don't – too used to Apparating and Flooing anywhere they want to go." John shook his head. "Less common in America, because we're too big for Apparating to be reasonable for a lot of places, and we don't have a centralized Floo Regulatory Authority to connect different areas. The person you're Flooing to has to be on the same network as you, and there are about three networks in New York City alone, it's awful."

Aldon didn't reply, too busy observing the people around them and following. How _was_ he going to get home? That wasn't a thought that had occurred to him before. They had better guide him home, or he would have to find a quiet place to cast a _Point Me_ spell to get him there.

They stopped at a hairstylist first, to lop off Aldon's long hair. It had been, in typical Wizarding male fashion, thick and shoulder-length. It was a little wavy, and Aldon had always taken at least a half-hour of time every morning to fix it, pushing it back from his face in the artless, somewhat tousled look he had always favoured.

In court, Justice had made fun of him for it, adding a crown to her appearance. As if it wasn't humiliating enough putting him in a dress, she had somehow considered that, for this trial, she needed the crown. That was just her amusing herself, he was fairly certain – it was decidedly _not_ a typical look of the capricious Incarnation. He had flashes of three thousand years of history, here and there, and the crown showed up only rarely. It was the dress, the golden armbands, the sword and scales that came up, over and over again. And the blindfold, but Aldon was absurdly grateful that she not chosen that particular signifier for him.

Now, it was short – shorter than anything he could ever remember sporting before. He had taken a glance through one of the glossy _magazines_ on the table, ignoring Archie while he chattered endlessly about his plans for Aldon's new _look_, and then he had picked one and gone with it.

It wasn't the near shaven look, the _buzz-cut_ that John sported, or the short, curly locks that Archie had. It wasn't the _mohawk_ that Archie insisted would be _awesome_, or the frankly boring style that John had pointed out, almost a shorter version of what he already had. No, if Aldon was going for a visual change, he was going for a _major_ change – it had to be a look where anyone who saw him would be struck, speechless, for a few minutes.

He liked the look of one of the models – his hair was short on both the sides and the back, almost shaven, but the top was left longer, fixed to part on one side, a wave to the other. A bit of excess would fall over his forehead, a little comma, and that would be good and _different_. A different perspective showed that he could also push it back, away from his face, and it would hold, a little puffed from the top of his head. He liked it.

"That one," he said to the Muggle woman who seated him in her chair, throwing a white, strangely glossy cloth over him like a blanket.

She raised an eyebrow, looking between the picture and him. Her hair was blonde, but turned to brown close to her head, an odd shadow. "Big change."

"I got myself disowned," Aldon replied, waving a hand dismissively. "It's warranted, believe me."

"Er," the woman said, a little uncertain. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't be." Aldon smirked a little. "As I said – it's warranted."

"And of course, he has to pick the douchiest hairstyle in the whole bloody catalogue," John muttered behind him. "Bastard."

"That I am, John."

His head felt about five pounds lighter without his hair, and he had to fight not to fidget with it when it was done. There was barely enough left for him to fidget with, really, and it left his face so much more open. It was enough that the hairdresser had looked between him and Archie for a second, frowning.

"Cousins," Archie explained cheerfully. "I'm from the progressive half. It's okay to be gay, on my side of the family."

"Oh," the woman said, a sympathetic look crossing her face, as she rang them out. "I see. Well, I hope it gets better!"

"Thanks," Archie replied with a grin, shepherding John and Aldon out the door.

"What was that about?" Aldon couldn't help but ask, a little way down the street, eyebrow raised. "For the record, I'm not gay. I don't have a preference – and I'm aware most witches and wizards say that, but really. I _am_ equally attracted to both men and women."

"Yeah, I know." Archie shrugged, then grinned a little. "But she was a little too curious, so I gave her a cute story that she'll match up with her preconceptions, and it'll be fine! Statute of Secrecy, and all that. No-Majs aren't as forward as we are about sexual orientation, though that's changing."

"Did you see _Philadelphia_?" John asked, redirecting them to turn down another street. "My sister took Chess and I to see it after I came out to my family, Christmas in our third year. I fucking bawled, and then because I was bawling, Chess was bawling, so we're holding each other and bawling and you know what? Tina has the fucking nerve to give us a lecture on safe sex. That was a _heavy _movie, but you'd like it – it's about AIDS, and Tom Hanks won the Academy Award for Best Actor that year for it."

Archie winced. "No, I didn't catch it – third year, you said? I watched a lot of movies at the drive-in that year, but not that one. Then I usually catch up on more movies over the summer, but I was in the Darien Gap that summer…"

Aldon tuned the two of them out, going back to looking around. The world looked different, felt different to him. The light breeze, ruffling his hair, wasn't throwing it out of shape – the gel the Muggle woman had run through it near the end seemed to be holding, not that he had enough hair left for the wind to do much to disturb it anymore. The sun was out, for once, and while the air felt a little damp, it wasn't bad.

The streets were filled with Muggles, out and about for the day. Aldon caught snatches of conversation here and there, and it was all so peaceful, so banal: talk about the weather, arguments about where to eat for lunch, chatter about work, about family. He spotted families out for the day, groups of people his age standing and talking, people ducking and dodging the crowds as they made a beeline for wherever they were going.

It really was so much like Diagon Alley, but it wasn't, at the same time. People here didn't have magic, and he didn't see any sign of magic on them, around them, but there were other things he didn't recognize. Everyday technology – there were red telephone booths, here and there, there were televisions playing in the windows of some shops, there were the never-ending streams of cars, meeting at angles and veering off in honking, screeching, semi-organized chaos. John led them past a few more streets, until they were on a huge thoroughfare, lined with shops on both sides.

"Oxford Street." Archie smiled, not as brightly as he did in Aldon's room, a softer, more genuine one. "Come on – let's get you some clothes."

The first shop was completely hopeless. They were clothes that Archie apparently liked, a lot of what Archie called _basics_: jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirts, knit cardigans, all in simple colours and patterns. Jeans, Aldon might have no choice but to capitulate at some point, but he was not prepared for that yet – surely there had to be Muggles that didn't like the feel of the thick fabric? And Aldon he would never be caught _dead_ in a sweatshirt. Even the name sounded unattractive – what were they for, _sweating_? And they were oversize, they didn't fit or flatter him at all. T-shirts, especially the long-sleeved ones, were slightly better, but they were just so – so _informal_. They looked even less formal than his sleeping clothes, and that said something. Out of desperation, he picked up two knit cardigans, one navy blue and the other black, not that he knew what he would wear them with yet. They were close enough to what he was comfortable with that he thought he could adjust to them, with time. If there was nothing else he could wear in this new world, knit cardigans it would have to be.

The next shop was even worse. There were even more t-shirts there, a lot of _cargo pants_ and _cargo shorts_ that John liked, and clothes made of an odd, slippery sort of fabric that he had never felt before. There was something else there that Archie identified for him as _fleece_, the mysterious fabric that he had testified about in his trial, and while he thought it felt very nice, Archie shook his head when he picked up a fleece sweater.

"No Warming Charm," he said, voice lowered and with a quick look around later. "Wizarding America does this better – you want the integrated Warming Charm. Like anything else, here?"

Aldon shook his head, putting the sweater down. He hadn't even liked it, really, he had just been curious about another aspect of Muggle technology. The fabric _had_ felt very warm, quite soft, and it had a sort of _springiness_ to it that he was unfamiliar with. He could pull it in one direction, and it would _stretch_, but less so in the other direction, but it was subtle, and the texture was plush, instead of bulky, like nothing he had ever felt before. He had no idea how they made something so warm and yet so light, and he would have only wanted it to throw spells at so he could figure it out.

This shop had a lot of other gear, for outdoor activity – the awful shoes called _trainers, _light shirts that John said were _made for sweating in_ (Aldon had robes for that, and they were bad enough), rucksacks and water bottles and hats that looked like nothing Aldon had ever seen before, with a wide brim in the front and a buttoned closure, made out of a hard material, in the back. This was a store made for those who enjoyed athletic activity, _going outside_, and that was not Aldon.

The third store and fourth stores seemed to be no better. It was more t-shirts, more jeans, more sweatshirts. John and Archie could apparently pick out the differences in styles, but Aldon was at a total loss. So what if one place had more holes in their jeans, and why did one want holes in their jeans anyway? What did the picture on one of the other shirts specify, and why was that important? Why did it matter that the shirts in one of the stores were heavily patterned and colourful, and not in the other? The two of them then exchanged looks, and took him to a shop where everything was in_ black_, where there was a big display of chains and little, tiny spikes, _lip rings_ and _nose rings _and he didn't even want to know where else Muggles had deemed it appropriate to pierce. He was fairly certain that one of the saleswomen was wearing a _dog collar_.

"It's very, uh, avant-garde," Archie invented, when Aldon turned to glare at him.

Unbelievably, that was where Francesca caught up with them, two bags of her own shopping on one arm. Aldon stopped, struck – she always looked so well put together. She had put her hair up in deference to the heat, in a long ponytail that still fell halfway down her back. A pale blue dress fell just past her knees, held in place by a careless bow provocatively tied at her neck. Her shoes were silver, with high heels, open-toed, and Aldon could see that her toenails were painted a light, delicate pink. He swallowed, a little embarrassed by simply having looked.

_Aldon Blake_, he reminded himself sharply. _Not Rosier_. Even if he had a thousand freedoms he had never had before, he didn't have anything to offer to this sparkling gem of a girl. No wealth to care for her with, no manor to put her in. No power to protect her in need. He looked away, looking at the display of piercings beside him instead. Ugh, there was something there for someone's _tongue_? He shuddered.

Francesca took one look at him, considering, then glanced at John, a question in her dark eyes.

John shrugged. "He doesn't like anything! We've taken him to The Gap, Columbia Sportswear, Vans, and H&M already."

She looked over at Archie, who also shrugged, a little helplessly. She sighed. "And you thought that _Hot Topic_ would be the, um, logical next stop?"

"It was worth a try?" Archie's voice was a little strangled, filled with smothered mirth.

Francesca shook her head and took a few, tiny, mincing steps towards Aldon. "Um, I'm sorry. Do you mind?"

"Mind what?"

But she took a few more steps closer to him, looking up to study his face, then a few steps back to run her eyes down the rest of his body. He swallowed again, feeling like nothing so much as an insect under her focused gaze. She was so beautiful. She was so beautiful, and apparently not attached to anyone, and he was absolutely no one at all.

She tilted her head one way, then the other, then she nodded, once, twice. "Marks and Spencer," she said, taking a few steps back and turning away from him, heading for the doors to the awful, black shop. "I think he wants something more formal than either of you wear."

She was right. From the moment they walked into the huge _department store_, ignoring the furniture, housewares and casual clothes for the more formal selection in the back, he immediately felt more comfortable. This was more like what he was used to – not robes, but things that were neat, clean lines pressed into defined structures, tailored closely to his body. The fabrics felt right, not the odd, new, glossy fabrics that so many Muggle clothes used, but they were the linen, wool, and cotton blends that he was used to feeling. Even some of the styling looked the same – buttoned up, collared and long-sleeved shirts, silk ties, even waistcoats.

He was drawn to the waistcoats. Unlike wizarding waistcoats, most of them were sleeveless, made to be worn over a light shirt, but the tie at the back tightened to emphasize his slim waist, his willowy form. He stood in front of the long, upright mirror, in black linen trousers, polished black shoes, a white shirt textured ever so slightly with little white, sewn, dots, and a grey waistcoat, while Francesca hesitantly fiddled with one of his cuffs. He didn't put on a tie, leaving the top button of his shirt undone instead.

"They're called _French cuffs_," she said, showing him the way that the cloth folded over, the lack of buttons to hold the shape together. She slipped in a little silver pin, showing him how the back of the pin twisted and folded out, holding the cuff in place. "You'll need cufflinks, like this."

"I see," Aldon murmured, lifting his arm up to examine it, the spot where she had brushed against his skin unusually warm. He was _not_ avoiding looking at her, and he was blatantly ignoring the sweet, strawberry scent coming off her hair. The cuffs were interesting. He liked them.

She nodded, having apparently fixed his other cuff to her satisfaction, and stepped away to look him over. "Huh."

"What is it?"

"Nothing." She shook her head, but Aldon's core rang with a half-lie, and he raised an eyebrow. She flushed slightly. "Just, um. You clean up nicely, I think."

"Oh." It rang as truth, and he ignored the tight, swelling balloon in his middle, looking instead at his reflection in the mirror. He looked … different. There was enough of him there, in the mirror, that he didn't feel like he was pretending to be someone else. He didn't feel awkward, out of place, as he did in Archie's t-shirt and jeans. These clothes felt so much more comfortable, so much more like him. This was him – this was Aldon Blake. Enough of Aldon Rosier was still there, but there was something else too, a sharp grace, a cold, hard elegance, that he had never achieved in his robes. He liked it. He liked this look.

"But monster, he doesn't look _modern_," John complained behind him, and Aldon knew that he was purposely leaving out the word _No-Maj _or _Muggle_ or anything else suspicious. "He looks like he stepped out of the 1920s. It's 1995, can't we put him in _real_ clothes? Like anyone else would wear?"

"People do wear these, John," he heard Francesca retort, behind him. "That's why they sell them? He needs clothes for work anyway – if he's working in the City, he'll fit in better in this than in anything you were thinking."

Archie laughed, delighted. "And just look at the expression on his face – it works. Who cares if it's not what anyone else would choose to wear casually? He can be weird and wear formalwear all the time if he wants."

Aldon left the shop with four pairs of Muggle trousers, six new shirts, five new waistcoats, two pairs of Muggle dress shoes, and a set of delicate silver cufflinks. Some of his Wizarding clothes, too, matched with his new style if he just left off the robes, so he still had a decent wardrobe. John and Chess both winced a little at the price tag as Archie helped him at the desk, but Archie only grinned, laughed, and paid for everything. Aldon had no idea how the pounds translated into Galleons, and he frowned a little, looking at the green numbers flashing up on the strange cash box. He had never seen the like, but they were everywhere in the Muggle world. The person tapped the numbers in, and the machine added it all up automatically and even printed a little white slip at the end, showing the arithmetic for them.

"Hey, Al," Archie nudged him on the shoulder as he watched. "Don't worry about it, okay? Dad and I, we got it."

That wasn't really what he was thinking, but he accepted it anyway, with only a slightly embarrassed look towards Francesca. As far as Aldon was concerned, having invoked Justice and being possessed for some three weeks for him, a new wardrobe was only just recompense. But there was also in it an implicit admission that he probably couldn't have afforded this for himself, and that was a hard reality for him to swallow.

They had enough time for Aldon to return to Christie's penthouse, for John and Archie to show him patiently how to take the Muggle _Underground_. Archie seemed to be fascinated with it, but it was only a sleeker, hotter, more crowded, and smellier and worse appointed Hogwarts Express. There weren't enough seats for everyone, and the one seat they found went to Francesca, who dropped into it with a small sigh as John glared at anyone who tried to interfere. The only good thing about the ride was that it was thankfully, blissfully short. Archie let him in, pulling out a key from his back pocket.

"Aldon." Christie was at home, and she hesitated a little, looking him over. She didn't comment on his new hairstyle, or his clothes, and he wasn't sure what to say to her in reply.

He knew her, but he didn't really know her. He had worked under her for a summer, he knew, and that had been fine – but he had been so far her subordinate, the lowest of all her employees, and he had only rarely talked to her. First, he had guessed who she had to be, then he had _known_ who she had to be, but he had never mentioned it, just as she hadn't.

Then the trial, and he remembered their conversation. He remembered every stupid, idiotic thing he had said in that conversation. He remembered her telling him her life story, how he had come to be, and he remembered barely paying attention to it. He remembered swiping a bowl of rice with butter chicken out from under her.

He remembered asking her about _sex._ With his father.

He cleared his throat, looking away in embarrassment.

"Hi, Christie!" Archie interrupted, holding up the key. "Thanks for letting us in this morning. We took him shopping, showed him the Underground."

"Thank you," she replied, waving a hand and refusing it. "It's, er, Aldon's key. I had it made for you, sweetheart, when … well, I don't know how much you remember?"

"All of it," Aldon said, his voice flat, as he accepted the key. "I was there, I was just… not able to respond."

They had only had a few more conversations, after the one they had the very first night, thankfully devoid of any truly humiliating moments. She had always been careful to take him home after court, but she had been busy setting up her new company, Blake & Associates, working out the details of the split from the Rosier Investment Trust, handling the media attention her new company had received. She would make sure something was on the table for him or that something was on its way, and then she would disappear to do more work, and he would sleep. He felt awkward – the last few weeks had happened, but he hadn't been himself, and this was his _mother_, and he had no idea how he was supposed to treat her.

And he had a job with her, too, at Blake & Associates. He supposed he should ask about that, about his start date and salary and everything. It was the ideal job he would have picked for himself, in a world of choices, so he was fine with that. It was just – it would be awkward. All his co-workers had known him as Aldon Rosier, and showing up now, as Aldon Blake, bastard son of the Director… well. He would deal with it when it came to it.

"I see." Christie smiled, a tremulous smile, turning back to Archie. "How much do I owe you and your father?"

"Don't worry about it. Least we could do, after the trial, right?" Archie shrugged. John and Francesca had elected to wait outside, in a little park nearby, since Aldon was only supposed to be dropping off his new clothing and changing before they went to Archie's birthday celebration. It was a nice day outside. Archie glanced over to Aldon. "Al, are you going to change, before we're late? New Muggle clothes, remember? Unless you've decided that you've seen the error of your ways, and you like the jeans and t-shirt after all?"

Aldon scowled, disappearing down the hallway to the second bedroom. His bedroom, he guessed, now. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

"No, no, I couldn't possibly," he heard Christie protesting behind him. "Not just today, but yesterday, too, you waited and checked in on him all day, and I couldn't have taken him to St. Mungo's…"

Aldon shut the door firmly behind him, leaning against it with a sigh. It was a new world, and as much as it was _freeing, _as much as it was _interesting_, it was also overwhelming. He would have to find a way to interact with his mother later, he knew, but between an evening with Christie and an evening with Archie at his mysterious Muggle birthday celebration, he would put off the awkwardness of the former to another time. At least, as exhausting as he and his friends were, Archie was easy, always ready with a smile or a joke, ready to smooth things over.

He had his regrets, soon after arriving at the Muggle restaurant that Archie had chosen. He had said it was _all you can eat dim sum and sushi_ earlier, and Aldon had largely ignored it, chalking it up to Archie being overly enthusiastic about something or other. He didn't know what dim sum or sushi were, and _all you can eat_ sounded somehow vulgar, ridiculous. Surely, he had thought, nowhere would _actually_ give people all they could eat. Probably just a marketing gimmick, to show off their large portion sizes.

He was wrong. He didn't even know where to begin with how wrong he was. First, the _all you can eat_ menu, spreading over two newspaper-sized pages, had to have at least a hundred options on it. Archie had had no idea what to order, and with a table of eight (including the Lord Black, Archie's Uncle Remus, and Derrick, one of his older friends from AIM that Aldon had never formally met), had simply asked Francesca to order for everyone. And her order!

"I think we'll take, um, two orders of har gow, two orders of siu mai, three orders of the shrimp chang fen, four sticky rice, three orders of the crystal shrimp and vegetable dumplings, three orders of the pan-fried pork and pickled cabbage dumplings, eight deep-fried scallops, a basket of deep fried squid tentacles, with hot sauce please, an order of chicken karaage, an order of the beef short-ribs, and," she took a deep breath, flipping the menu over, "thirty-two salmon sushi, twenty-four salmon sashimi, twenty-four tuna sashimi, twenty-four salmon tataki, twenty-four tuna tataki, thirty-two beef tataki, four mackerel sushi, four ebi sushi, two inari sushi, a spicy salmon maki roll, and spicy tuna maki roll. And we'll keep one of the menus, thank you."

The waitress nodded, taking down everything she said quickly in some sort of code, then she disappeared.

He stared at the petite girl, wide-eyed in shock, while she turned to speak to John, who was complaining (rather properly, Aldon thought), about how she had _definitely_ ordered too much food. She only shrugged, shooting John a look, and he groaned.

"I'm not eating all the leftovers again this time, I swear," he groused, reaching for his glass of water. "Not again, not after last time."

"We have eight people, it's not that much." Francesca sniffed a little. "And the beef tataki is mostly for me, anyway."

That was about when Aldon realized that none of them had any utensils. Instead of any proper utensils, they each had two thin, wooden sticks, which everyone at the table _except for him_ seemed to treat as completely normal. Archie and John were already pulling theirs out of the paper packaging, while Francesca was using the little paper cover to fold some sort of stand on which to prop her own set of wooden sticks. He stared at the way the others were holding the chopsticks in their hands – one on top of the other, in a sort of pointed V. This is what they would eat with?

"Not good with chopsticks? I'm sure we could get you a fork, if you prefer," Derrick Holden, the young man sitting beside him, said, catching a glimpse of his confusion. Derrick was his age, one of the AIM Triwizard team strategists, Archie had mentioned. He studied how Derrick held his _chopsticks_, watching as Derrick lifted the top stick separately from the bottom, showing how he could pick things up.

No one else had a fork. He looked down, trying to arrange the stupid sticks in his hands. "I'll be fine."

"Well, if you change your mind," Derrick said agreeably, turning back to his conversation with Hermione.

Then the food started arriving, and that was when Aldon realized that half the food that Francesca had ordered was _raw_. There were _platters_ of raw fish – it seemed like most of what Francesca had ordered were variations on _raw fish_, some of it just pieces and others thin slices covering little shaped ovals of rice. There was a green paste, called _wasabi, _to be put on them, and then apparently people dipped it in tiny dishes of soy sauce and just … ate them?

He stuck to the obviously-cooked foods, for awhile, struggling with the _chopsticks_ – there were dumplings of several varieties, none of which he had ever eaten before, in his admittedly limited experience. They were all good, if a little oily, and the rice rolls that came with those plates were delicious, and the rice was savoury, wrapped in a giant leaf and with a pocket of pork and vegetables on the inside. The fried chicken and the beef short-ribs, too, those were fine, but the squid tentacles looked strange, almost still alive, reaching out of the basket. He avoided those, as well.

"Aren't you going to have any sushi?" John frowned at him, his own plate stacked with several pieces of raw fish. "It's pretty good, for an all you can eat place. Usually the quality at these places is shit, but this one is on the better end."

"I – I don't think so," Aldon tried, but John just snorted, leaning over to grab the platter of raw fish and offering it to him pointedly.

"Just because you haven't tried it doesn't mean it's bad, and besides – if you don't help us eat it all, we'll get charged extra, and Chess will be upset because she'll think we didn't like the food she ordered." He kept his voice quiet, but there was an iron tone under it. "And if you don't help us finish it, I'll have to eat it all, and then when I inevitably throw up, I will go out of my way to do it on _you_."

It was only a half-lie. Aldon couldn't figure out which part was the lie – the part where he would have to eat it all, the part where he would throw up, or the part where he would throw up _on Aldon_. He didn't want to chance it – even if there were cleaning spells, there would also be the disgusting _feeling _of someone having vomited on him, crawling on his skin, so he reached out, hesitant, and picked a couple of the bright orange salmon sushi off the platter.

"That's the spirit," John said, setting the platter in easy reach of Aldon. "Keep eating – until you can't eat anymore, that's the point of these places."

It was pretty good at the time, Aldon thought to himself, leaning against one wall of the train in the Underground, on the way home. He would need to work out a safe Apparition point later, but for the moment, the train it would have to be. Derrick, who turned out to be quite friendly, had volunteered to go with him, make sure he got there, since he could just Apparate home afterwards, though Aldon wasn't sure he needed it. In any case, Derrick was just slumped in a seat in a corner, looking about as poorly as Aldon felt.

There was such a thing as eating too much – as soon as they had finished the first round, Aldon would have been prepared to move on, but Archie had insisted on seconds. Francesca had ordered _les_s,the second time, saying that whatever she ordered people had to _eat, _which meant that she only ordered about two dozen pieces of sushi, this time a mix of different rolls, and a giant basket of _tempura_, and Aldon had had, along with most of the table, to choke down a few pieces of both. Then the four pieces of mackerel sushi arrived, late, they had all looked at each other, and despite much protest, Aldon had been tricked into taking one. It had been too strong, too sour, and he had immediately wanted to throw up the minute it was in his mouth, but instead he swallowed it as fast as he could and reached for the water to clean the taste out of his mouth. Then there had been a _dessert_ round, where Archie had said that since it was _all you can eat_, he wanted everyone to try one of _every_ kind of dessert.

The good part about the desserts, aside from the fact that they were given tiny spoons to use instead of having to struggle along with their chopsticks, was that they were tiny, only a couple bites each. There were a lot of them – a mango pudding, a coconut pudding, green tea ice cream, black sesame ice cream, a miniature chocolate mousse that tasted nothing like chocolate mousse, and a poor crème brule without the caramelized top. But on top of everything else, it was… a little much. Too much.

But it had still been good. It wasn't that the food was good, because while Archie had loved it, everyone else had agreed that the food itself wasn't that good. It was oily, the wasabi wasn't real wasabi, the soy sauce was weak. The rice wasn't the perfect almost-sweet and almost-sour that would set it off perfectly with the fish, and the desserts had been too one-note, overwhelmingly sweet. It had been good because of the people he had been with, he thought – it wasn't like being at Hogwarts, with just Ed by his side, his best friend that he kept so many secrets from, and it wasn't like anywhere else, either. It had been loud, and he hadn't spoken much, but he had still felt like he was _part of something_. They let him just sit there, soaking it in, and he hadn't felt too out of place. He could participate or not, as he wanted, or he could just stare at the never-ending array of food arriving at the table. He could watch Francesca, on the other side of John, as she giggled, as she smiled, as she delicately used her chopsticks to eat more food than he had ever thought someone her size could eat, occasionally flipping her long hair back, over her shoulder and out of her face. He could laugh along at whatever new, over-the-top reaction Archie was having to some other, new, food that he had never tried before. It had been good, and even if the _food_ wasn't good, Aldon thought it wouldn't be too hard to convince him to go back.

He hoped – or, maybe he wished – that the rest of the summer would go so easy.

XXX

It had been a week since John had left for Germany, and Francesca was, despite herself, a little lonely. It wasn't that Sirius and Archie weren't the perfect hosts; to the contrary, they both seemed to go out of their way to make her feel comfortable, though Sirius was almost as bad a mother hen as John. It wasn't that Archie and Hermione were too lost in each other and ignoring her or anything; no, they both invited her out with them every day, but Francesca had no interest in being a third wheel to their dates. It wasn't even that John hadn't, apparently, asked his cousin Rolf to check in on her every few days, offering to take her out.

Francesca had made the mistake of agreeing, five days ago, and Rolf had decided that the very best place to take her was a _magical menagerie_. One where the creatures roamed free, and Nifflers bit and grabbed at her jewellery with sharp claws and teeth, and she had bolted when Rolf tried to bring her _baby_ Nifflers.

"They're just playing!" he had called after her, as if that made it better.

Since then, despite multiple efforts from her cousin-by-John, she had been avoiding him. She had work to do anyway – she had given up, for the moment, on active experimentation, so it was back to the books to try to figure out more on the nature of magic. But both the Black and Potter Libraries seemed to be light on magical theory, and what was there was shockingly inaccurate. She didn't recognize half the texts she found, and some of the information blatantly contradicted her first three years of magical theory classes at AIM, so she suspected that they were being censored. She had tossed the magical theory books she had found, four books in, and was now approaching it from a wandlore angle instead. Not that she had any idea whether _this_ would be helpful at all for her problems.

Magical frequencies, and resonance. The relationship between magical frequencies and the electromagnetic spectrum. There was nothing – there seemed to be absolutely nothing. Even the wandlore books were so entranced with the mystic _magic_ of it all, unwilling to look at things more analytically. Magic worked, because it was magic! Wasn't it just so _magical?!_

Please. Magic still followed rules. Francesca would work out those rules, or enough of them for her ACD to revolutionize spellcasting as they knew it.

She heard the clearing of a voice at the entrance to the library and sighed. Rolf, again – whatever John had made him promise, he was trying to keep to it. Or show her creatures. She didn't know. Creatures were scary, they had teeth and claws, and they got their fur and slobber all over her and her clothes. "Just because you promised John doesn't mean you—oh."

It wasn't Rolf.

Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, smiled very slightly, shifting on his feet in the doorway. He looked very different in proper clothing – this was why robes were stupid. No one looked particularly good in robes, but someone with his slim frame would always be swallowed by them, no matter how well they were tailored. "Is this a good time, Francesca? You had promised, weeks ago, to walk me through your invention. We signed a non-disclosure agreement – on charmed parchment, too."

Francesca frowned. They had. She had hoped he had forgotten, between being possessed and losing his position in society and everything else that had happened.

"I start work in a week," he tried again. He sounded nice, but Francesca had long since learned not to trust people just because they sounded _nice_. "I was hoping you might be able to show me now, or if not now, perhaps tomorrow?"

Francesca studied him for a moment. She didn't really want to, in the sense that she never really wanted to deal with people she didn't really know, but on the other hand, it wasn't as if he had done anything to her, either. He had done something very nice for Archie, in being possessed, and she did like Archie. John had vouched for him too, even if Francesca was pretty sure that was only so she would have someone to talk to about her invention that wasn't him.

And they did have an agreement. Francesca did like to follow through on her agreements. And in this case, if she simply overwhelmed Aldon with the scientific principles he no doubt didn't understand, maybe he would leave her and her research alone.

"Fine," she said abruptly, closing her book with a snap, tucking it under her arm and heading for the door. He was in the way, but she brushed by him as though he weren't there. "Let's go. Public library. I'll ask for a study room."

"The public library?" Aldon's voice was surprised, as he quickly stepped out of her way, then fell into line a little behind her. "Er – why?"

"Because the technology within it is too delicate to work in magical environments without shielding." Francesca hopped up the stairs to her room, then she paused halfway, seeing that he was still behind her. "You, um, don't need to follow me to my room?"

He flushed, falling back immediately. "Of course. My apologies. I will wait here."

It was the work of a second to grab her experimental ACD, kept in its protective case, along with a sweater, and only a fifteen minute walk to the public library. They did have an empty study room, which Francesca promptly took, shutting the door behind her. Aldon cast a concerned look at the closed door, but she ignored it.

"The Assistive Casting Device," Francesca started briskly, taking her device out of its protective case and laying it out on the table. "It works on magical frequencies. Um, every mage has a unique magical frequency, which I believe falls on a spectrum – you may see some effect of this in wandlore, but I won't go into detail on that now. Suffice it to say, there is a relationship between magical frequency and electromagnetic frequency, which leads to resonance – if the right magical frequency and the right electromagnetic frequency meet, they amplify each other and it leads to other effects."

Based on Aldon's expression, Francesca was pretty sure she had lost him. He had followed into _magical frequency, _she thought, then gotten lost around _electromagnetic frequency_. She scowled and pointed upwards at the fluorescent lights above them. "Fluorescent lights. Not magic. Electricity."

"Ah, you're saying there's a connection, somewhere, between Muggle electricity and magic," Aldon said, and to his credit, he didn't say the words _Muggle_ or _electricity_ with any hint of scorn. Instead, his whole tone was one of interest, as he leaned forward to touch the delicate circuitry that made up the inside of an ACD. "I do not follow, exactly, but go on, please."

"The ACD is built on the concept of resonance. I discovered, the summer after my first year, that John's magical frequency reacts with the electromagnetic frequency of blue gallium-nitride lights." Francesca's magic, unfortunately, did not react with the same – that was a problem that she would need to deal with another time, if she didn't find another base mechanism for the ACD to work on eventually. "Then, um, I read this paper."

She reached into her bag, pulling out a photocopy and tossing it to Aldon, who skimmed it with some interest. It was a rather dated paper, now – a very experimental paper in Runes, which she had found largely by chance. Master Geoffrey Blayways had proposed breaking down the Western runes that already existed into smaller runes, _proto-runes_, that in theory could be standardized – an _alphabet_, or, better yet, a _programming language_, instead of the half-syllabary, half-character-based runes that currently existed. It was fascinating, but Francesca's runic studies were mainly in the Chinese style, so she had only a surface understanding.

"Master Blayways argues is that all runic spells can be broken down farther into proto-runic sequences, which improves casting efficiency and decreases necessary power by a considerable margin. His research is sound, but the reason his techniques haven't been adopted is twofold: first, he breaks it down too much – the proto-runic sequence, between fifteen and thirty symbols for every basic spell, is too much for any mage to hold in his or her head at any given time. Second, the proto-runes are inherently unstable – they don't channel magic very well, in the sense that magic destroys them."

She paused, looking up. Aldon was a wand-user, just like most people in the West. He wouldn't know the importance of those two facts. "That's, um, important for runic spell-casters – either the rune must be easily pictured and memorisable, or—"

"Or you need to be able to put them into reusable paper charms, which you can't do if the runes will be destroyed." Aldon nodded, flashing a quick smile at her. "I use runes too, Francesca. I'll read the paper later, at my leisure."

"Oh." She didn't really know what to say to that, so she looked back down at the ACD, and moved on. "Um, well, the paper showed _Fortis_ as an example, so I merely lined up the gallium-nitride lights in the right pattern in the circuit, which is entirely No-Maj – it's just a basic electric circuit, powered off batteries."

She stopped again, tilting her head as she looked down at her device. Even on the inside, it was quite pretty, though she didn't think Aldon would see it.

"But John couldn't run his magic through the circuit – you said it's too delicate to work in magical environments without shielding." Aldon hesitated, looking up from the circuit. "Will you tell me what you mean by _shielding_? You… worked out a way for Muggle electronic devices to work in magical environments. That's … one of biggest problems in modern magical theory."

Francesca looked away. "Not really. They already knew how to do it – I just made it usable, that's all. The Obex potion, developed in the 1950s, is inert and opaque to all forms of magical contact, but since electronics don't take well to any liquids, potioneers moved on from it by the 1960s. All I did was put the Obex potion in a form that could actually be used for shielding electronic devices."

She pushed away the circuit, in favour of showing him the plastic box that she kept it in, keeping it from magical influence. "Aerogels are the answer – it's a No-Maj material, where all the liquid has been removed from a gel in a way that preserves the structure of the gel. The pockets left in the gel can then be filled with magical blocking potion, and the whole thing is bonded between two layers of polycarbonate."

Aldon leaned down, examining the box with his odd, hawk-like eyes, poking at it with long, thin fingers. There was a long pause, as she let him examine it all he wanted – there was nothing he could do with it, and as far as she was concerned, it was one of the least interesting parts of her device. She needed it to make the ACD work, but when compared to all her other problems with the ACD, it was really the _least _problematic. It would be nice, of course, to make a lighter version of it or another version that would integrate better with her boombox, but that wasn't necessary.

"Aerogels and polycarbonates can be made clear, so the lights in the runic sequence still shine through," Francesca said, finishing her explanation. "All John has to do is send his magic to the ACD – his magic resonates with the light shining out of ACD, which is the proto-runic sequence, and casts the spell. But since his magic never touches the lights themselves, it's reusable."

There was a long moment of silence, as Aldon finished examining the box and turned his attention back to the ACD itself. He picked it up, examining the LED sequence on top, the circuit board behind it, the batteries powering everything, running his fingers over every component.

"Fascinating," he murmured finally, looking up to examine her with those odd eyes. A little like gemstones, she realized suddenly. Like glowing amber, or crystallized wildflower honey. "Have you published?"

Francesca looked down, at the plastic table in the public library's study room, shifting a little uncomfortably. Why did it always come down to publishing? Why did people always ask her that?

She didn't want to publish – or, at least, not now. Publishing was a distraction – publishing meant that people would come and ask her too many questions, make her waste time defending her ideas. Publishing would take time away from her goal, from what she _needed _to do. Francesca didn't want to waste time and energy arguing with every academic under the sun. She didn't want to deal with people who would tell her that she was wrong, that she was just a child, that she was just a weird Wandless excuse for a mage, a paper-caster born on the wrong side of the world, and that she couldn't possibly know anything.

Francesca wanted to drop the ACD, a complete, perfect, functioning ACD on the world, and have it break everything. She wanted studies on how much _better_ it was than wand-casting, how much faster it was to learn, how much more efficient it was with magic. She wanted ACD-users to take the Duelling circuits and the Triwizard Tournament by storm. She wanted people to forget a time when they didn't have ACDs on their arms, alongside a _secondary_ casting method like a wand or a sword or paper spells. She wanted her device, _hers_, to revolutionize spellcasting as they knew it.

She didn't want to waste time publishing.

"No," she said finally, looking away. "It's not really – well, there's so much No-Maj science in it, no one would understand it. It's not worth publishing, anyway."

Aldon studied her for a long moment. "Even if were true, that's not why you haven't published. And you know that it isn't true. It's a remarkable invention, Francesca."

She blinked at him, then picked up the model ACD and put it away in its box, safe and sound, putting everything into her shoulder bag. Her hands moved quickly, and she saw that her nail polish was coming off. She needed to have her nails redone. Pink, as always. "It's just – I mean – I—" She cleared her throat, standing up. "There you have it. A walkthrough of my ACD. Please remember the non-disclosure agreement, Aldon."

She turned away, heading out. There was a nail salon not too far away, and she did bring her wallet with her, so she may as well get her nails done now. Maybe she would ask for some nail art, this time. Tiny cherry blossoms, or something like that.

"Francesca." Aldon's voice was soft, and despite herself, Francesca stopped. She wasn't _rude_. "I'm sorry if I've upset you, and it's fine if you don't want to publish. The sort of advances that could be made… I understand. Please, let me help you. Point me to some books on Muggle electricity and _electromagnetic frequency_ for background reading. Let me show you how I can be of assistance."

She didn't look back at him. "You're in a _library_, Aldon," she said finally, then she walked out.

The next day, he found her in the formal sitting room at Grimmauld Place, whiling away some hours rereading _Stardust of Yesterday_, and put six magical theory texts in front of her.

"These are censored in Wizarding Britain," he said, as Francesca looked at the titles. "They're from my personal library. I had them imported from America."

Three of them were in the AIM library, so she had already read them, but they were excellent reference guides. The other three were new to her, more specialist texts on the theory of magic itself, particularly as it related to wizarding genetics and bloodlines. She hesitated for a moment, before reaching out to open one of them. Maybe they would have something about magical frequencies, at least as it related to inheritances? Or something about the nature of wild magic?

"I stayed in the library for hours, yesterday." Aldon's voice was quiet. "I started in the encyclopaedias by looking up _resonance_, then the _electromagnetic spectrum_, and then I worked through some of the mathematics. I'd like to read some more generalised texts though, now, for a broader context."

Francesca raised an eyebrow, looking up at him. His expression was open, earnest. He had _worked through some of the mathematics?_ Granted, it wasn't like the basic wavelength and frequency formulae were difficult, but if he had gone through some of Maxwell's equations, then perhaps he was more intelligent, or at least more willing to learn, than Francesca had given him credit for. John and Archie practically ran when they heard the word _math,_ and Francesca remembered well the year that she had practically had to drag them through the quadratic equation. And Francesca had long since stopped talking to Hermione about any of her work – Hermione spent all her time challenging every single one of Francesca's assumptions, instead of looking at the big picture and seeing that the ACD _worked_.

She _would_ like someone to help her with the ACD. Someone intelligent, someone who didn't run at mathematics or No-Maj technology, someone who was willing to see her big picture, who didn't waste all her time questioning her base assumptions. Her dad had colleagues, and post-docs, and grad students, and even a few undergrads for collaboration, and they always solved problems together that he couldn't do alone. Aldon seemed to have strengths in both magical theory and runes. And he wasn't afraid of math, he hadn't insulted the No-Maj technology her ACD ran on. In fact, he had gone so far as to try reading more on his own when Francesca had abandoned him in a No-Maj public library.

He looked so pleading, staring at her with those glowing amber eyes.

She wavered a minute, looking at the stack of books, then she closed her romance novel and stood up. "Okay," she muttered. "Go get a pen and meet me in the kitchen."

He blinked his surprise at her, but before she could even consider what textbooks he would need, she needed to know where his math skills were. Did he already know calculus? If so, single variable or multivariable? Please, let him already know some calculus – not that she would be _teaching_ him any if he didn't, but it would be an extra two textbooks that he would need to work through if he didn't.

It was the work of maybe twenty minutes before she had a basic test written out, on two sheets of paper ripped out of one of her notebooks. She stole questions from the stupid IB test prep books her parents had started sending her this year, as well as from the advanced homeschooling math curriculum she was following, then added a couple questions from her dad's last exam for his second-year undergrads. Her makeshift test covered algebra, the sort that even Archie and John could do, linear algebra, matrices, systems of equations, calculus (both single variable and multivariable) and just because she felt a little cruel, some ordinary and partial differential equations (she couldn't solve any of those, so she doubted he could, but she rather wanted to know how he would react).

He was waiting for her in the kitchen, as promised, fiddling a little with the pen he had no doubt found somewhere in Grimmauld Place. Archie had said once that mages in Britain still wrote with quills, which just seemed messy and inconvenient, and Francesca wondered for a moment if she should offer Aldon one of her mechanical pencils.

She didn't, though.

"Here," she said, sliding the test across the table, with a notebook – not quite empty, but there was nothing in it that would help him. "Take your time. You can stop when the questions get too hard for you."

She promptly curled up in the seat across from him and returned to her romance novel. Genevieve Buchanan. Kendrick of Artane. Seakirk. Castles, and a romance with a ghostly knight. Good writing.

It was everything she loved in a romance, and she should be lost in it. She wasn't. Somehow, she couldn't help but look over at Aldon, every now and then, watching as his eyebrows furrowed and he concentrated on the paper in front of him, biting his lower lip every now and then. He didn't look up from the makeshift test, and she caught him crossing out more than one answer. He was fine through most of the algebra, it seemed, even through the quadratics, then he hit the calculus.

He seemed to be all right through the differentiations, but then he was stymied by the integrations. She saw the minute that he knew he was lost, and watched as he frowned and kept at it, trying one thing after another. She wondered how long that would persist – Archie wasn't bad, he tended to struggle for twenty to thirty minutes before throwing his arms up and asking for help, whereas John would be in her dorm, not even ten minutes later, begging for help with his eyes.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Then thirty, and Francesca was barely reading anymore, being far too entertained by the scowl that Aldon had on his face, the stabbing of his pen as he crossed out one effort, then another, as he drew out the function in a tiny square in a corner of the notebook and plugged away at it.

He got it. Seventy-one minutes later, he figured it out – differentiations and integrations were only the reverse of each other, and Francesca _saw _the moment that he found the fundamental theorem of calculus. His amber-gold eyes lit up, and she didn't even think he knew that he was smiling, wider than anything that Francesca had ever seen on him before. A pure smile of happiness and excitement and _discovery_ that she knew that she, too, sometimes wore when _something made sense, finally_, and _it worked, it worked, her ACD was working_.

It was only the first fundamental theorem of calculus. She watched him complete the rest of that section, then she took pity on him when he slammed into the multivariable questions. She was working through some of those now, and they could be hard.

"You can stop, now," she said, reaching over to grab the test and notebook. "I can tell when you're done. You've been at it two hours."

"You didn't mention a time limit." Aldon's voice was mild, but he was frowning a little at her. "I can keep going."

She stared at him, eyebrow raised, and he blushed. Point made.

His notation was terrible, like nothing she had ever seen before, almost coming right out of the Ancient Greeks, but his answers were by and large correct. He would need to learn some better notation, but the basics of it were there, through single-variable calculus. An introductory physics textbook, possibly an intermediate physics textbook as well, something for oscillations and waves. Maybe an introduction to electromagnetic theory? Single variable and multi-variable calculus textbooks, definitely. That should be more than enough for him to be working with for now.

"University bookstore," she said, and she hoped they had the books that she liked the best. There were certain _classic_ textbooks for these, and she would prefer them if she could get them.

Aldon Blake went home that night with five used textbooks, and Francesca was somehow unsurprised when he showed up at Grimmauld Place the next day, introductory physics textbook under one arm, _just_ _in_ _case_ he had any questions. He showed up every day the rest of that week, and most of the next, one or another of the textbooks in hand. He brought her more books too, borrowed from his mother's library or from work, and Francesca let him sit across from her, wherever she was, and she let him read, or run through problem sets, in silence. She was working too usually, sneaking glances at him every between taking notes on magical theory and considering how she might approach her next set of experiments. Something to fix on a mage's magical frequency, she thought. Or wavelength, if magical frequencies obeyed the same mathematical formulae as electromagnetic frequencies. She didn't know if they did, or maybe Planck's constant would be different for magic. She would need to test and find out. Maybe Aldon would be agreeable to throwing some magic at a line of multi-coloured LED lights, to see if his magic would resonate with anything.

Sometimes, but only sometimes, and only if she was making some for herself, she made Aldon tea.

XXX

Neal Queenscove stood on a hill, a backpack on his back, his sword alerting him to the weird sense of magic tingling in the air. His sword wasn't _present,_ of course – being in the No-Maj world, he had placed it into non-being, where he usually kept it, but it was still there, an ethereal warning signal alerting him to the fact that there _were _wards here.

Chinese heirloom-casting had many advantages. First and foremost, heirloom-casters were _never_ unarmed. Unlike wands, which were an actual, separate, implement and which could be broken or separated from their users, a Chinese heirloom was a literal part of its user. Their cores were their ancestors – his, he remembered, was a finger bone from his three-times-great grandfather, a notable general in the Imperial Chinese Army. Cores were gifted to heirloom-caster children almost as soon as they were born, and they were never apart from them. Most heirloom-caster children started weapons training before they were five. Their blood, their sweat, their tears, their _effort_ and their magic made the heirloom take shape, in accordance with the old spells carved on the cores, and over a period of between five to eight years, they would bond permanently and irrevocably with their heirlooms.

Neal's sword was a _part of him_, a specially tuned and magically-sensitive part of him, or the physical part of himself that existed in the world of magic. It would read magic in the air, it was a faster attack and defensive weapon than his wand, and he could not be parted from it. Even the heirloom's core didn't really _exist_, anymore – his weapon was more magic, in many ways, than it was physical.

The disadvantages, though, were many. It was specially tuned for attack and defense – even in China, most Charms, all Transfigurations, almost all Healing were within the purview of runic paper-casters. It was what had made Chinese mages strike an uneasy balance between the two groups, millennia-old: heirloom casters were the brawn, the soldiers and fighters and warriors, but runic paper-casters were the brains, the politicians and scholars and academics. Being born in an heirloom-caster family was both an honour and a curse – there was only one path, and it was that of the sword. There was no other future for an heirloom-caster son, and heirloom-caster daughters, the guardians of the line, had it even worse, adding in pressure to choose the right husband, the right unique elemental affinity to introduce into their lines.

Neal was infinitely grateful that his mother had met his father, then betrayed a million conventions by eloping with him to the frozen shores of Québec. Neal was, as a result, a Queenscove and not just a Song, a wand-user and Healer as well as an heirloom-caster and fighter.

His sword was telling him that there was a ward there, but that he could cross it with no difficulty. He looked around – there was no one in sight, so he called his sword out of non-being and probed the wards a little more.

No-Maj Repelling Charms were woven in, an Anti-Apparition ward, as well as several different layers of protective charms. Neal didn't recognize them, but then, he had never been much into warding. He wouldn't know how a ward like this should be constructed, or what to expect anyway. He knew, from more probing, that the ward would let him pass because he was of Queenscove blood, and that these were Queenscove lands. But there was something off about this whole thing, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

The wards were _new_, far newer than they should be considering that the British Queenscoves had died out almost a century ago, before the Great War. There shouldn't have been anyone, or anything, here to refresh the wards. He had expected to arrive to find fraying wards, or non-existent ones, or… well, he just didn't know.

He had just been out for an adventure, really. A last hurrah, before he settled to the rather pedestrian life of an Emergency Healer at L'Hôpital de la Francomagie in Montréal. A ten-week backpacking tour around Europe, including a couple weeks spent with his brother Will and his brother's girlfriend, Tina, in Geneva. He had met up with Yukimi for a week or so, her conservative parents being appeased as long as they were chaperoned, a role that Will and Tina had taken on with, in Neal's opinion, far too much eye-rolling and teasing. He had shown Yukimi around Geneva, feeding her too many macarons, then when she had returned to Japan, he had moped around another week before going off to bounce around Belgium and France and Switzerland, both magical and non-magical. He had spent too much time eating all the best food and drinking the best wine, then he had headed to Germany for a week or so, checking out an endless stream of castles, hitting up a few acquaintances. He was now on the last leg of his journey, just a quick run through Britain – _No-Maj_ Britain, to be clear, because he hadn't wanted to chance an entry into the notoriously discriminatory land that was Wizarding Britain.

The ancient Queenscove lands were the exception. He was curious – this was where his family had come from, after all, and after Archie's invitation, he had only become more interested in _seeing _it, at least. Most of what he had said to Archie, about talking to his family about returning to the family seat in Britain, had been a lie – he had never expected that they would return, no matter that he had said that they would consider it.

He _had_ mentioned something to his family, about how the seat was still there. Just an offhand comment over dinner, one evening when they were discussing the _Rigel Black_ scandal.

"Archie said that if we wanted to go back, his family and the Potters would help," he had said – in English, since both his mother and father were there. Language was an interesting thing, in his household. If it was just any of his siblings and his mother, they would speak Mandarin, even if Mom constantly bemoaned their butchering of her native language. If it was any of his siblings and his father, they generally preferred French, and Neal had to admit that he was partial to French. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue the best. If it was just the siblings, they spoke whatever language they felt like at that precise moment, jumping languages without reservation. And if it was the whole family, together, plus Graeme or Will's various girlfriends (well, it was Graeme who had the various girlfriends, Will had only had eyes for Tina Kowalski ever since he had met her), then it was English.

"And you said…?" His father's voice was mild, only curious.

"I said we'd think about it." Neal shrugged.

"Are you _insane_, little bro?" That was Graeme, his emerald-green eyes opening wide. They all had them – it was a trait of the Queenscoves generally, along with their wind cores. The fire came from the Songs, and Mom had been happy that, at least, Will and Jessa had taken after her a little in their looks, and Graeme and Jessa had inherited her elemental affinity.

"It's been a long time, Graeme," Neal had replied, a little defensively. "I mean…"

"You mean you're thinking of sticking your neck on the line for one of your underclassmen in a political situation that we have nothing to do with and of which we have only a limited understanding." That was Will, home for the week, Tina at his side, and Neal would fly back to Geneva with them. Will had a small smile on his face, teasing. "Tell me otherwise, Neal. Please."

Neal hadn't really known what to say. He wasn't thinking of going back, not really, but maybe they should just _look_ at the old lands. Just a look, before making any big decisions. "No, well, maybe—"

"_No_, Neal." Graeme had shaken his head. "You've always been a dreamer, but don't – the fact that we're descended from Wizarding British nobility is just weird family history, something to whip out to get girls out on a date with you. Don't go back, eh? We're Canadian, we're Québecois, we're _Montréalais_ – we don't belong in Wizarding Britain. Their problems aren't ours, little bro."

"Wish it were so simple to tell _my_ brother the same," Tina had grumbled, beside Will, face deep in a plate of pie. "John's going to be neck deep before he knows it, and I don't even think there's anything I can do about it. He insists he's just going over this summer to provide support to his best friend, and of course Francesca is going with him – Dad's freaking out, already talking about _extraction plans _for them if it all goes south."

Neal had sighed, and let it go. He really wasn't thinking of anything weird, or crazy, or anything. He just thought maybe he should go _see_ the lands, see what was left of them. He wasn't going to _claim the seat_ or anything. Chances were, he thought, he would just find a pile of old mouldering ruins, and no one needed to know he had even come by to see it.

But the wards were fresh and powerful, and he kept his sword out and wary as he crossed over the barrier, alive to anything. Maybe he should have left, but he had already travelled _so far_ to get here, taking a No-Maj train to the closest town, then a daylong trek on foot, cross-country, to where he knew the Queenscove lands had been.

He should have rented a car and driven it, but they drove on the wrong side of the road here, and somehow, he had doubted that the roads went out to Queenscove. Not much by way of roads were necessary when there was Apparition, when there was the Floo, when there were broomsticks. He'd have Apparated, but he didn't have the coordinates for it, and no use risking the Statute of Secrecy – he didn't want to accidentally appear in the middle of a No-Maj highway, for example.

He crept over the next hill. There was nothing – nothing but the breeze, running through his hair, the salt tang of the air as it blew in from the sea. Queenscove was on the sea, and if he listened very carefully, he could hear the rush of the waves, the crash as they hit the shoreline. He couldn't see it yet, but it had to be close. Another careful look around, and there was still nothing, still no one.

Cresting the hill, he could see that it was really more of a _cliff_. He looked down, and there was the ocean, waves slamming into the hard stone beneath him, launching an enormous salt spray. To his left, just a little way beyond, was an inlet – it was tiny, big enough for a handful of boats to come in and out, but not much more than that. No ship could fit in the narrow inlet – ships would need to anchor off-coast, running a shuttle. And on the opposite side of the inlet, he saw it.

Queenscove.

It looked… better than he could have imagined. It wasn't a mouldering ruin, for one thing. It was intact – there were two circles of curtain walls, he could see already, as well as a main keep, peeking out over the second curtain wall. It wasn't a big castle, not compared to the Renaissance glory of Heidelberg, or the No-Maj fortress at Marienberg, but it was solid. Defensive, with the crashing seas at its back. And the hill would force any attacker to climb for an attack. It was pretty, a postcard castle on a hill, its back to the seas.

A chill ran down Neal's back. It was wrong, all wrong. Queenscove shouldn't look like this – this was a _medieval_ fortified castle, maybe with a few Renaissance-or-later elements. This wasn't a castle left to rot for almost a hundred years – this was a storybook castle, dumped into the present. Beautiful, but made to withstand a war.

Neal kept a tighter grip on his sword as he picked his way around the cliff. At the inlet, he looked down the steep slope – it was a manageable slope, but it would be a deadly trap for attackers from the sea. No ship could get in close enough to provide support, the inlet was too small for enemies to congregate and attack en masse, and the rocky path upwards provided no cover against any defenders. Neal's long-ago ancestors had known what they were doing, when they had picked the spot to build Queenscove.

If this was the Queenscove they built. It couldn't be – it just couldn't be. Queenscove had been a fortress once, that much he knew. The Queenscoves had been one of the few pre-Conquest Houses to survive, and they hadn't done that by being weak. Once, House Queenscove had been strong, known for the prowess of their knights, but that hadn't been for _centuries. _As the centuries turned, Queenscove had moved on. Their Lords had changed, putting down their swords in favour of hunting and gambling and playing politics, or whatever else noble lords did. Neal wasn't actually sure what noble lords did nowadays, other than enjoy a seat on the Wizengamot.

Queenscove should have changed with its Lords. And yet, by the castle staring down at him, imposing, from the clifftop, it hadn't. And that was _really fucking weird_.

It was another hour of cautious trekking before he reached the front gates. They were open, inviting, and Neal didn't like it one bit. For a moment, he paused – he could leave here, now, go tell Will or Graeme or someone, come back with some backup. Mom would come with him, if he asked. But there was nothing around him, no one around him, only the sound of the wind and the waves.

He walked through the gates, looking up to see the portcullis, its points sharp and silver, pointed downwards at him. It didn't look even a little rusted, and that didn't make any sense. He hurried forward, into the space between the two curtain walls.

It was lush, green, between the walls. Almost peaceful parkland, but Neal knew better. There were two curtain walls because the space between them was a killing field. The Lord Queenscove could man both walls with fighters, and even when the first curtain wall was breached, they would be able to rain spells and more on those below before they made the second curtain wall. There were two bridges, solid wood, that he could see running between the two walls – solid enough that the fighters manning the first wall could fall back, but wood, so that they would burn.

He swallowed thickly, the creepy feeling all over his shoulders intensifying. This was too new. This was not a castle a century abandoned. This was not even the castle that the last Lord Queenscove had left behind.

This was the castle of his dreams. This was the castle, or something like it, that he had always pictured, daydreaming between school and sword practices and whatever else he had. He had pictured these walls, these bridges, for an assignment the tutor Mom had hired to teach him and his brothers the sword, to teach them the traditional lessons of every heirloom-caster child, had made them do. The double curtain walls, the bridges – these was parts of his ideal fortress design. If he had had a castle, if he had ever wanted a castle, if he had ever designed a castle – it would have been this one.

He crossed through the second wall, this one held by thick, wooden gates, a triple portcullis, under a tower that Neal was _sure _had another trap within in, probably one involving cursed fire. The second curtain wall was twelve feet thick, a bit wider than the first wall, but both walls were meant to withstand force. The first wall was not meant to be sacrificed, but the second wall was there in case it fell. There was the main courtyard – there were the lists, a wide space for training with weapons and magic, there were the barracks, there was the keep. It was larger than it had first appeared, since only a small part of the keep poked above the curtain walls.

There were steps up to the doors, a half-dozen of them, giving any defenders a bit of an advantage as they fell back. The heavy wooden doors were shut, and Neal put one hesitant hand forward, pulling on the large, iron ring. The door opened into the hall – the centre, the grand hearth, of every medieval keep.

It wasn't as dark as he would have expected – there were windows carved above, and the evening light streamed in. The hall was dominated by the Queenscove coat of arms, huge, over a high table, with crossed swords underneath. Tapestries lined the walls, warm, _new_ tapestries, and Neal stopped hard because he saw himself.

Or – not himself, surely. Someone a lot like himself, he thought. Wizarding genetics were weird, but emerald eyes, brown hair, a long nose, those had always been the hallmarks of the Queenscove line. His sword was there, too, but tapestries came from a time when everyone wielded a sword. This was one of his Queenscove forebears, no doubt, with the castle picturesque in the background. It looked a bit like Graeme, too, not just him, so it had to be one of his ancestors.

It was still a creepy resemblance, especially when it was so new, when it should have been faded and moth-eaten and nearly gone. Neal turned away, and a stone caught his attention.

It wasn't an important stone, not architecturally. It wasn't even a part of any notable features – it was just a random stone, along the bottom row, about six to the left of a stairwell that Neal knew would lead to the upper levels, to bedrooms and parlours, comfortable living spaces that, in his imagination, would be full of soft fleece, deep armchairs, cushions pattered with maple leaves and fleur-de-lis, stacked full of books. The stone called to him magically, though, a flare of power so strong in his magical senses that his sword was nearly vibrating. What _was_ that? And why was it so important?

He walked over to it, examining it carefully, but it didn't _look_ any different. To his hands, it didn't even feel any different – it was just a stone. It was magic, though, that much was certain. Neal leaned back, studied it for a moment, then he reached out and tapped it with his sword.

A blinding flash of light, and Neal swore, leaping backwards, sword in hand as he whirled around. _Câlisse!_ He should have left and come back with someone, _osti de câlisse de tabernak!_ He was alone, and for all he knew, he had triggered some sort of ambush – who _cared_ if this was his dream castle, this was _fucked up to all hell_ and he was even swearing in English, _il est absolument idiot, il aurait dû inviter ses frères ou sa mère ou Kel ou quelqu'un d'autre! _Then he wouldn't be _alone_, miles away from civilization, without basic _backup_.

When the light cleared, however, all he saw were three little creatures, about two feet tall. Their skins were tinted green, just slightly, and each of them had wide, bat-like ears, one of them with rings. They were wearing, oddly, towels – clean, pressed, tea-towels, with the Queenscove coat of arms printed on them, folded like a toga.

Each and every one of them was beaming at him like he had brought home the sun.

"My Lord Queenscove," squeaked one, stepping forward to stand a little ahead of the other two. He was the oldest, Neal guessed, since he had clouds of clean, white hair coming from his ears. "Welcome home! We is hoping that everything is to your liking, as we is working long and hard on this over many, many decades!"

Neal staggered backwards two steps, glancing warily around himself. It spoke English – _weird _English. What it was, he had no idea. "Euh – um – what are you, and what the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

He had an accent. _Câlisse_, he only had an accent when he was flustered and jumping between languages mentally. One of the bizarre little creatures squealed, gripping its ears and shaking its head violently.

"Language, young master," it scolded, and its voice was even higher pitched than the leader. "_Language!_ The legend never said that you _swore_."

"What legend?" Neal choked, looking around him frantically again. At the tapestry along one wall of the Hall, at the huge fireplace, at the giant coat of arms hanging at what he thought of as the _head_ of the room, directly across from the front doors. "_What fucking legend?_"

His own voice was scaling in pitch, and there was a wind blowing through the Hall, his magic reacting to his panic. He tamped down on it, a little, though the towels the three little creatures were wearing were flapping in the wind. They nodded, though the first one was starting to look a little concerned.

"Er, young master…" the leader started, taking a step closer. "My lord Queenscove? The legend is saying that Queenscove would decline, over many years, that the knights of Queenscove would be dying out, and that then, and only then, a new Lord of Queenscove is returning and setting the House to rights once more?"

Neal was only half paying attention, because he had realized something else.

He was in control of the castle wards. He knew, without having to walk them, how far the wards extended, he could feel any fluctuations in them as they happened. He knew that each of the windows were protected by an additional ward-layer instead of glass, each fuelled by its own keystone of power. He knew that the stone he had prodded was the primal keystone for Queenscove, the base one on which the entire castle was based, and he knew there were eighteen secondary keystones hidden throughout the grounds.

_Your castle_, Queencove told him, practically purring in delight. _You're the Lord Queenscove. I missed you. I missed having a master. Won't you look around, see what I have made for you? Everything is comfortable, I promise, and if it isn't, I'll fix it for you. You want fleece blankets with maple leaves and fleur-de-lis? I'll make it happen!_

No. _Osti de crisse_, this was not happening. He was dreaming – why was a _castle _talking to him? He was either dreaming, or he had officially, completely lost it. Rest in peace, Neal Queenscove.

"Er – young master…" the creature in front of him said slowly. "Is you needing some help?"

"I've just gone completely insane," Neal announced. He was dreaming, so talking to a castle and to this creature didn't seem like it would be much of a problem. He would wake up, and he would find that he hadn't even left his youth hostel in Edinburgh yet, he was sure. Any time now, and until then, he supposed he might as well play along. "Um, what exactly are you?"

"Butler is being a house-elf!" the leader squeaked, his chest swelling with pride. "And with Butler is the remaining Queenscove house-elves: Ditty and Octa! There is being … not very many of us left." The elf's ears drooped in sorrow. "The past ninety years is being difficult, carrying out the sacred trust."

"Sacred trust?" Neal looked around, took a few steps to one side, sinking into the chair at the end of the high table. He didn't feel so good. When was he supposed to wake up? He had to wake up. And when he did, he would tell himself that his planned adventure to the Queenscove lands was a fucking stupid idea, and he would instead wander around some proper No-Maj historical sites for the day. "Tell me more."

Butler looked at him, a little bit of worry on his face, and Neal wondered how he could know that. The creature was not _human_, he didn't, _couldn't_, know. "My lord Queenscove…"

"Neal," Neal corrected, a little too sharp. "Just Neal, thanks. Neal Queenscove, nice to meet you. I'm not lord of anything."

_But you're my Lord_, the castle whimpered to him, and Neal had the bizarre sense of something tugging at him, at his sleeve, wanting him to go explore the castle, the lands, _his _lands. No. He was _not _listening to that voice, he was _not_, this was _not happening_.

"Neal," Butler said agreeably. "Erm… should Butler, Ditty and Octa be explaining the legend to you?"

"Please," Neal croaked, rested the point of his sword on the ground, his hands on the hilt. He really didn't feel so good right now.

_Maybe you should come lie down, _the castle suggested, prodding him towards the upper levels. _I have some very nice bedrooms. You can take your pick! There's a lovely masculine one on the third floor, I did it all in dark colours and wood, and there's a pretty bedroom on the second floor that gets all the evening sunlight in the summer, and everything is polished so brightly that it glows! Or, if you don't like those ones, I'll make something nicer, to your tastes, I just need to get to know you better._

Neal shook his head, trying to dislodge the voice. If it was even a voice. It was more like _knowledge_, being funnelled directly into his brain – it didn't have a language, it was just there. The castle liked him. The castle wanted him to look around, see how nice it was. The castle wanted him to stay. Why the _fuck_ was a castle talking to him?

The house-elves were looking at him with some concern, but they evidently decided to ignore how he sounded. "A very long time ago," Butler started, his voice high-pitched but slow.

"At the Conquest." The third elf, who hadn't spoken before yet, interrupted. This one seemed to be a little younger than the others.

"Not at the Conquest," Butler snapped, turning on his fellow creature. "It is being a little after the Conquest, during the Harrying of the North. Queenscove is the last – Peverell falls through treachery, end of 1069, and Ollivander surrenders after a siege. Lord Gershom Queenscove is seeing the Conqueror's men, Muggles and wizards alike, burning and destroying the country, and he is knowing there is nothing left. He is calling on the centaurs, on Queenscove lands, and is requesting their aid.

"Centaurs is not helping. But one centaur, Torvus, is feeling bad for him, so he reads the stars for Queenscove. He is saying Queenscove lives for centuries more, that there will be many difficult and troubling centuries. Gershom's descendants is falling away from their noble obligations, from the knightly code of conduct that Queenscove prides, and there is coming a time when the House dies, when the House is being empty, for years and years. But it is at that time that Gershom's true heir, and the true Lords of Queenscove, is returning." Butler paused, and the house-elf's big eyes looked down at Neal's sword.

Neal swallowed. He knew what they were thinking, looking at his sword, the sword that he knew perfectly well how to use. Was there a more _knightly_ weapon than a sword? But he wasn't – it wasn't—

He wasn't a _knight_. He wasn't a _Lord_. He was just an heirloom-caster!

"I'm not – I'm—" he croaked. "I'm just _Neal Queenscove_. Third son. Healer!"

_My new Lord and master,_ the castle whispered to him, a note of joy in its spectral voice.

"Lord Gershom Queenscove is surrendering to the Conqueror's men." Ditty picked up the story, her tiny voice quiet. "He is going to his execution quietly, and the Queenscoves is holding the lands and the title. But before he goes, he is giving to us, the house-elves of Queenscove, our sacred duty."

"We is serving the current Lord, but we is always having the duty to the House first," the third house-elf added, twisting his ears a little – in nervousness or embarrassment, Neal wasn't sure. "Lord Gershom is setting up a second trust for Queenscove, is setting money aside, for the day when the true Lords is returning. House-elves is caring for it, alongside our duties to the sitting Lord of Queenscove, is making the second trust grow. Through centuries, house-elves is passing the legend down, we is keeping the secrets of the future, we is holding Gershom's trust."

"Then Lord Cathal Queenscove dies, in 1903." Butler's huge eyes trailed up from Neal's sword, to Neal's face, where he almost seemed to be memorizing it. The house-elf smiled, a huge, happy smile, tears starting to brim in his eyes. "And the castle isn't disappearing, the wards isn't falling. Queenscove is waiting, because there is an heir coming, and house-elves is staying. The castle is shifting back slowly, is turning back to what it was during the eleventh century but is keeping some of the better defenses added later. House-elves is cleaning. House-elves is using the trust to buy the newest things, so that the true Lord can be comfortable and happy when he is coming. House-elves is caring for the wards, is putting in a Floo connection, is making sure everything is _perfect_ for the true Lord's arrival. And here you is! Butler is not knowing if he would be living to meet you."

The old house-elf burst into tears, sobbing violently as he wiped his tears from his face, using his tea-towel dress. The other two rushed forwards, putting their arms around him, casting surreptitious glances of their own towards Neal.

Neal felt dizzy, a sick, and the castle's calling was becoming stronger. It was a _nice_ castle, it insisted, and he should look around. He wasn't dreaming, or if he was, it was a _hell_ of a persistent dream, because he wasn't waking up. He needed to do something, he needed to get up and move, and he needed help. Someone. If he woke up, all would be well, and he would just go see some No-Maj sights, but if he wasn't, then _câlisse_, he needed help.

_I'll help you, if only you'll stay_, the castle sang to him. _Don't leave me. I'll provide you all the help I can. We'll be great together, you and me._

Will and Tina were in Geneva.

But Archie was in Britain, and he was a noble. Twelve Grimmauld Place, he remembered. There was a Floo connection. He said he would help. He said he and his family would help.

"Floo," Neal croaked. "I'll – I need to talk to a friend. I – please."

"Floo powder," Octa said, and a box of it appeared with a pop on the table where he pointed, while Ditty turned to the fireplace and a fire roared into existence. "Here is being Floo powder, my lord."

"Neal," Neal corrected again, feeling light-headed as he grabbed a fistful of powder and staggered to the fireplace. "I'll – I'll—"

_No, don't leave me!_ The castle was wailing at him, and it was digging into his magical core, wanting him to stay, to look around upstairs, to rearrange everything to be perfect for him and for his family and for the future of Queenscove to come. He could barely breathe, but he ignored it, throwing the Floo Powder into the fire. The fire roared upwards, green, and he jumped in.

He had taken the Floo maybe twice in his life before, but he knew how it worked.

"Twelve Grimmauld Place," he yelled, and he spun, he spun, he spun in the fire, wanting to throw up. His core was pulling him backwards, tied to the castle, and he kept that awful, all-encompassing _awareness_ of his lands, of the castle. It wanted him back, it was lonely, and it wanted him to come _home_ and live in it and care for it. _Osti_ _de crisse_.

He slammed into an unfamiliar room, done in comforting woods and green, and he fell out of the fire, coughing, his sword in his hands. This better be Archie's place, and Archie better be home, or – or he didn't know. The next closest help was Will in Geneva, and Neal didn't have the power for an international Apparition or enough money for a Portkey. And he needed help _now_.

"Neal! Dad, no, put your wand away!" That was a familiar voice, Archie, thank god. Thank _all_ the gods. "That's my friend Neal – Neal Queenscove!"

There was a hand on his shoulder, tiny black heels and a skirt, and Neal knew who that was without having to look. Francesca Lam, close friend of Archie Black, and it was with a sigh of relief that he rolled over, death-grip still on his sword. Archie was there, leaning over him, his own wand out in a Healing diagnostic pattern.

"Shock," he heard Archie say, looking up towards someone who looked so much like him that he had to be Archie's father. "Shock and panic, headache, and his magic is tied to something up north, I can't tell what. If it's magical contamination, it's beyond my abilities – we would need to get him to St. Mungo's. But if it's contamination, it's like none I've ever seen before, it's more of a _link_ than anything else."

"To the castle," Neal choked out, sitting up, and he felt Archie and Francesca supporting him. He did have a headache, now, a _hell _of a headache. Oh, _crisse_, he was not dreaming, he couldn't dream a headache this bad. Odd, he hadn't had one at Queenscove. "To Queenscove, to the castle, _why the fuck is the castle talking to me?! Câlisse_, I should have listened to my brothers, they all said going back to Queenscove was a bad idea, and did I listen? No, I wanted a fucking _adventure, _so I didn't. And now I've got a castle in my head telling me I'm its new Lord, and three _house-elves _who look at me like I'm the fucking second coming of Christ, and _I was just there to look!_"

His voice was scaling up in pitch, in panic, he hadn't let go of his sword, and Archie was in front of him. "Neal, breathe. It's okay, we're Healers. Match my breathing, okay? Calm down, tell us what happened. We'll help."

It was something that all Healers knew how to do, calm a patient down, and Neal focused, hard, though a pounding headache. He realized that Francesca was rubbing his back, as he listened for Archie's breathing, worked on matching his own breathing to it. It took some minutes, a few minutes, before he was calm enough that Archie could help him get up, to take a seat at the wooden table, and to Archie's credit, he didn't try to take Neal's sword away from him. His sword made him feel better, so he would keep on holding it instead of dismissing it into non-being, as he normally would for others' comfort. It felt better to be armed, it always had. That was a trait of all heirloom-caster children – after having carried their heirlooms constantly for years on end, they would always been a little more comfortable having it, physical, in their hands.

"Should I extend my congratulations?" That was a voice that Neal didn't recognize, and he squinted upwards. The young man was leaning across the counter, arms crossed, with a somewhat amused expression on his face. His hair was short, brushed up out of the way, away from his face, which was much like Archie's. They had the same small, elegant nose, the same high cheekbones, enough for a general resemblance, but his eyes were orange-yellow, hawk-like, and his accent was far sharper than Archie's. "My lord Queenscove." He bowed, very properly, very seriously – on occasion, he had seen Archie pull something like this in theatre.

"Aldon, please," Archie snapped, and Neal raised an eyebrow. So that was Aldon Rosier, the Truth-Speaker who had summoned and channelled Justice for Archie's trial – or, well, former Rosier. He had followed the trial, mostly through _La Presse Magique_, but the Aldon Rosier scandal had only been a footnote, two lines in a longer article about the trial itself. Neal had been relieved to see that Archie, even if he hadn't gotten _off_, had at least avoided any more serious consequences.

The young man shrugged. "Congratulations, Lord Queenscove."

"I'm – I'm _not_—" Neal blew out a sick, heavy breath, putting one hand to his temple. Gods, his head was hurting.

"Ignore him." That was Francesca, standing up. "I'll make some tea. Archie, a Headache Relief Potion?"

"I'll go get one—" Archie started, but he was interrupted.

"No, there's no point." The older man, the one that had to be Archie's father, shook his head grimly. "It's not that kind of headache, not if it's what I'm thinking – what Aldon's thinking, too, no doubt."

"Something with willow, then," Francesca said, filling a teapot with water. "Do we have a tea with willow? Should I, um, go out to get some? I can run out to at Tesco's, find some tea with willow, some acetaminophen or ibuprofen…"

"At this hour?" Aldon Rosier's eyes widened, and he uncrossed his arms. "It's getting dark. If you must go out, Francesca, then allow me to escort you."

Ah, another one. Neal laughed, a weird, sick-sounding, hysterical laugh. The world might have completely tilted on its axis, but some things never changed. It was a familiar scene – someone with hearts in his eyes, staring at Francesca Lam. The number of times John had tried to rope him to having some _stern discussions _with someone or another – well, it wasn't like Neal _usually_ went along with it, only once or twice, and only if he thought it would turn into a problem if he didn't. Where was John, anyway? Francesca was never far apart from him.

"I don't think those will work either, Francesca, dearest." That was Archie's father, again, voice filled with pity. "If he's the new Lord of Queenscove, then it's probably a magical backlash – it'll only disappear when he returns to his castle. I'm shocked he was even able to get away from his lands, tonight. But it's a kind thought. Just some regular tea, I think."

"It's fine," Neal gasped, lifting his head from his arms. "Or, not fine, but… where's John, Francesca? You're never far apart from him. And Hermione?"

"John's in Germany, visiting Gerhardt." She hummed a little, bringing the teapot to the table, tracing a casual rune on top to set the thing to boiling. "His moping was driving me crazy."

Neal nodded, taking a deep breath and staring at the teapot as it started steaming. That made sense. He wanted to throw up, and some tea would help. Maybe. Yuki also thought that tea helped with everything. "Good on him."

"And Hermione's at home, with her family." Archie's brow was creased in worry, his grey eyes focused as he sat down on Neal's other side. "So? What happened, Neal? You look _awful_."

"I went to Queenscove," Neal said softly, looking down at the wooden table. "It was – I wasn't going to do anything. I was just curious, I just wanted to see what was left of the old place. I'm a Queenscove, sure, but I'm – I'm _Canadian_, I'm _Québecois_, I'm _Montréalais_. It's just – it's family history. I just wanted to _see_ it, then I'd go on my merry way. I took a No-Maj train to the closest town, then I hiked cross-country to get there. Found the wards – they were fresh, new, kind of strange, but they let me pass. Found the castle – it's new, but too old—"

"New, but too old." Rosier's voice was dry, amused, and Neal scowled at him. "Descriptive."

"Ignore him." That was Archie, this time. "Aldon has a bit of a problem where he's a chronic bastard. The literal part of that only came out recently, so he's being even more of a bastard than he usually is. His bark is worse than his bite."

"It isn't," Rosier muttered, but he came and sat down at the table anyway. "New, but too old. Explain."

"The castle _looks _new, but it's built in an older style. Medieval fortifications, with a double curtain wall, linking wooden bridges, killing field between the walls. Some outer defenses, too – there are six ravelins, three of them in the sea—"

How did he know that? Oh, _crisse de câlisse de tabernak_, how did he know that? He could picture them so perfectly in his mind, too, the triangular outer fortifications, and he had only seen two of them coming into Queenscove. How did he know there were six of them? The castle was in his mind, he could picture them perfectly, he could still feel the _wards_, especially powerful on the ravelins.

Francesca poured a mug of tea and put it in front of him, and Neal picked it up and threw it back. It was too hot, scorching on the way down, but Neal didn't care. Tea was supposed to help.

Tea didn't help.

"You didn't know you knew that," Archie's father said, filling in the blanks. "Go on, Neal. You found the castle, and I'm guessing you went inside?"

"Yes," Neal replied, setting the mug down. Francesca leaned over and refilled it, and he wrapped his hands around the warm mug. "I went inside. The grounds are well-kept, there are lists for training, there are barracks. The keep is, like the rest of the castle, too new and too old at the same time. I went inside – went inside the great hall. New tapestries on the walls, giant fireplace, Queenscove coat of arms on the back wall, high table. There was a stone, behind the high table – the primal keystone to Queenscove, but I didn't know it at the time. My sword called to it, because it's magically powerful, so I went closer to look at it further, and then…"

Neal spread his hands, a little helplessly. "Then I had a castle in my head, control of the wards, and three house-elves calling me _Lord Queenscove_ and telling me family legends."

"Hmm." That was Rosier, leaning forward in interest, resting his head in one hand. He had left off the biting sarcasm, this time, and there seemed to be nothing in his face but academic curiosity. "You said you went closer to the keystone and _looked at it. _What do you mean by looking at it?"

"I poked at it a bit with my hands, then I decided to touch my sword to it, because magic calls to magic, then there was a flash of light, and boom. Castle, wards, house-elves." Neal shook his head, lifting his mug for another drink of tea. Gods, his head hurt. It seemed like it hurt more now than it did when he arrived.

"Did you have any open cuts, wounds, on your hands?" Rosier exchanged a look with Archie's father, whose name Neal still didn't know. The Lord Black, he supposed he would have to call him for now, but it seemed weird to call someone _Lord Black_. Almost as bizarrely weird as being called _Lord Queenscove_. "The claiming of a noble seat normally involves a gift of blood on the primal keystone – otherwise, you ought to have been able to visit and leave, as you had planned. Only a drop will do. There are some traditional words that go along with the rite, but in my opinion, they are symbolic and magically unnecessary. It is the blood that forms the claim."

Who was Rosier? He talked like an upper-class, overly academic, snob.

A gift of blood, though…

"_Tabernak_," Neal whispered, realizing what must have happened. He glanced down at his sword. "Oh, _crisse. _I touched my sword to it. Heirloom-caster swords are made of _us_ – our magic, our effort, our sweat and tears. Our _blood_."

"Well, then." Rosier nodded, leaning back, apparently satisfied with a tiny, amused, smile on his face, and a curious eye on Neal's sword. "Congratulations again, Lord Queenscove. I am eager to see the reaction of Wizarding British Society when you take your seat on the Wizengamot."

Neal glared at him. "Fuck off, Rosier. I'm not taking any seat on the Wizengamot. I'm going back to Canada in a week, back to Montreal, I have a job lined up."

"Blake," Rosier corrected, leaning back casually, eyebrow raised. "Aldon _Blake_. I was disowned weeks ago and no longer have the right to the family name."

"Whatever. I was in Europe weeks ago. I'm going home, I just need…" He didn't know. His head was pounding, and his core was tugging him back north. "I don't know. I just need my magic untangled from whatever this is, I need to _not have a castle in my head_."

"Dad…" Archie looked at his father, grey eyes pleading, but the Lord Black shook his head slowly.

"It's not magical contamination," he said. "He's, magically speaking, the Lord of Queenscove. Aldon, I think you might have the more classic education on this – the Blacks no longer have our ancestral seat, and while Grimmauld Place obeys me much as a noble manor does, the usual rules don't apply to us."

Blake nodded, a little stiff, but when he spoke, he again left off the sarcasm. "The simplest way to put it is that noble Lords _are_ their lands. As the Lord of Queenscove, having claimed the seat, you _are_ Queenscove – that is why you can control the wards, why you're aware of everything at Queenscove from miles away. It is said that a Lord, bound to his lands, is nearly untouchable. I am – or I was, I should say – only in the Book of Copper, so my ancestral seat is not as responsive, but I have heard that Book of Gold family seats can be… difficult."

"What he means is that, like Hogwarts, the manors develop a bit of a personality over time," the Lord Black picked up, voice dry. "I remember when James claimed Peverell Hall – it took him weeks to figure out how to put the walls away and keep the stone knights from patrolling the grounds and terrifying visitors, and it was a month before he could leave the grounds without triggering a backlash headache. You have to develop a bit of a relationship with your grounds before they trust you enough to leave, I think."

"Harry never mentioned this," Archie piped up, frowning. "Harry never said anything about this to me."

The Lord Black shrugged. "I'm not sure that Harry knows, yet. It's up to each family to choose when to tell their Heirs about the procedures for claiming their seat. Grimmauld doesn't require a gift of blood, nor does it fight me at all, so for you, the wards will just fall to you when I pass. I didn't see the need for a big speech on it. Aldon, though, was probably younger."

Blake shrugged uncomfortably. "Six. My … adoptive mother insisted. Were the wards to fall to me, I was to issue my claim immediately, and prepare for challenges." He paused. "Obviously, she knew more than she said about me."

"Backlash headache," Neal interrupted, feeling the room spin a little through the blinding pain that was in his head. "Yeah, have that. How do I make it _stop_? How do I _unclaim_ the seat? I want to go home – I want to speak French and eat all the fucking poutine and smoked meat. I want to romance Yuki, convince her to come see me in Montreal. I want to go to Kyoto to see her. I don't want to be stuck here, I _don't _want to be tied to this _stupid _discriminatory country."

Blake and the Lord Black exchanged looks.

"Someone of the bloodline would have to challenge you for Lordship," Blake said finally. "Someone of the same consanguinity or higher. The lands will obey the winner. Or you have to die."

There was a moment of silence, filled only by the sound of Francesca refilling the teapot to make more tea for everyone. Neal stared down at the table, into his tea mug – he knew perfectly well that no one in his bloodline would be coming to Britain to challenge him for a Lordship he did not want. Dad was Head Healer at the hospital in Montreal; Graeme was an up and coming Auror. Will had his whole life in Geneva. Dom was of the bloodline, but one or two removed from Neal by consanguinity. Nor was he particularly willing to die.

"_Tabernak_," Neal whispered. His head was aching like no one's business, and he wanted to throw up.

"I think you probably need to go back to your castle for the night," the Lord Black said decisively, clapping one hand on his shoulder. "The Wizengamot won't sit again until mid-September, so we have time to figure this out, decide what to do. I'll check the Book of Gold, tomorrow at the Ministry – it'll have updated itself if you're the new Lord Queenscove. This isn't the end of the world, Neal, and you _can _leave the country – you just need Queenscove to trust you, then you can arrange for a steward to care for the lands. Do you want one of us to come with you tonight, stay with you?"

Neal shook his head, feeling like his brains were sloshing around in his skull. "No – no, I – I don't know."

He was of age. He was eighteen years old; he didn't need a minder. He had just backpacked through half of Europe by himself. But hell, he didn't really want to be alone in what was, apparently, _his_ castle all night, with only the _house-elves_ and the castle itself in his head for company. _Osti_. He didn't know what the _hell_ he was going to do about this. How did one make a _castle_ trust them? Especially a castle with what sounded like _abandonment issues?_

It was a fucking _castle_.

"I'll go with you," Archie stood up. "Dad, you don't mind, do you? I wouldn't mind seeing a real castle, and I'm worried about that headache. Let me go get an overnight bag."

The headache stopped almost immediately when Neal landed back in his hall, Archie on his heels, but Neal was exhausted, drained. The house-elves were still there, whispering quietly among themselves; Neal smiled weakly at them, and asked if there were rooms available. All three of them gasped, bowing at Archie, then ran off, presumably to prepare bedrooms for them both.

_There are lots of rooms_, the castle whispered to him, delighted, and Neal felt that odd sense of something tugging at him, wanting to show off. _Come and see_. _I even managed to magic up some maple leaf and fleur-de-lis patterns for you, because you said you wanted them! _

_Fine_, Neal snapped mentally at his castle. _I just want a bed now. Something comfortable, for both me and Archie, and I'll figure out how to deal with all of this in the morning._

The castle was all too happy to oblige. It even put books on his bedside table for him.

XXX

_AN: Look, everyone, it's a fun chapter! I had so much fun writing this one, all the tiny details. Really, Aldon would have lost his head a lot more if Archie wasn't there to give him something immediate and annoying to focus on, and quietly gave him a primer on Muggle society without seeming to do it and without embarrassing him. And then Aldon can focus on Francesca, who decided to abandon him in a Muggle library and then give him a math test to prove his worth. And Neal! Welcome back to Neal, and I had way too much fun writing Queenscove. For those who are not French (specifically: not Quebecois), most of the French is just Quebecois cursing. Câlisse means chalice, osti means host, crisse means Christ and tabernak is tabernacle - the Quebecois still curse using church words, and stringing them together is an art that many Quebecois pride themselves on (none of those mean much, it's just "christ of the host of the tabernacle" and stuff like that). As for the long sentence in the middle of Neal freaking out, he's really just repeating what he said in English:__ "He was an absolute idiot, and he should have invited his brothers or his mother or Kel or someone else." __Thanks go to mercuryandglass this time for breaking down how house-elves talk so I could write house-elf speech, and to meek_bookworm as usual for the beta! meek advises that the Queenscove Castle is her favourite character. Please leave me a review and let me know how happy or not you are that Neal has reappeared!_

_Next Chapter:__ Raise a glass to the four of us / Tomorrow there'll be more of us / Telling the story of tonight / __They'll tell the story of tonight. (The Story of Tonight, from the Hamilton musical)_


	7. Chapter 7

Neal woke up at six in the morning, the way he had as long as he had remembered. He didn't _like_ waking up at six in the morning, but it was habit. Wake up, wash his face, put on loose practice clothing, go outside to his gloriously beautiful lists.

It was nice, running through the exercises he had done every nearly every morning of his life, in the environment he was supposed to. This wasn't the expanded backyard that he and his brothers and his sister had been forced to train in, under the watchful eye of their mother, his entire childhood. This wasn't the Quidditch and Quodpot pitch, where he had faithfully run through his exercises every morning at six in the morning at AIM.

It wasn't that he liked early mornings, or the sword. It was that, in some ways, he had known nothing else. He was Song, and like his ancestors before him, he carried a sword. That line apparently rang equally strong on his father's side too – by now, he had seen the Great Roll of Knights, carefully preserved in the Queenscove library. The sword was a part of him, and even if he didn't always _like _it, he still went out faithfully, every morning, even when he was tired, when it was cold, when he was sick, and he ran through an hour of sword exercises.

At AIM, it had connected him to his family. He had known that, at six in the morning, Graeme was outside, shivering on some mountain in the Appalachians, running through the same exercises as him. He had known that Will was out in the freezing cold, two layers of fleece shirts with an integrated Warming Charm, seeing his breath in the air as he ran through the same exercises. He knew that Jessa, at Ilvermorny, ran through her exercises just as her brothers did, just as Mom did at home. That didn't mean it was easy, but it did make it _easier_, and he would never be the one that _didn't do his exercises_ that day. Not when he knew his brothers and sister were out there, in much colder conditions than he enjoyed, doing their exercises. Not when he knew that they would hold each other to account, when they came home, and Graeme _loved_ beating them all into the dirt.

It became easier when Kel started at AIM. They had met almost by chance, running into each other just past at six in the morning – Kel with a naginata, heading out of Oliver Hall, looking for a place to practice, and Neal with his sword, walking out of Pettingill Hall. They had stared at each other in shock for a solid minute, then Neal had given her his most ridiculous bow and motioned for her to lead the way to Quidditch and Quodpot pitch. There, they had struck up what seemed like an unlikely friendship: Neal, a third-year Healer, and Kel, a first-year in general studies. Neal, a half-Chinese heirloom-caster – Kel, an American halfblood raised in Japan, who practiced the naginata.

Then, John had shown up, and while he wasn't a traditional caster like the two of them, he was a Natural Legilimens who kept his powerful gift under control partially through intense physical conditioning. He, too, had slammed into them just past six in the morning, early in his first year, and he ran laps and trained his Natural Legilimency while they practiced. It was their time, early in the mornings, and they didn't need to talk. They just moved, and they kept each other company through mornings that were too cold, too tiring, too dull, and pushed each other when one of them wanted to say, _just one day. _Just one day, he'd like to sleep in. Just one day, and therein lay madness.

"Literally," John had muttered once, bleary-eyed, ten after six in the morning on a cold February day when Neal had needed to rustle him out of bed. "Ugh, fine, I'm coming. I don't want to go mad."

One day would lead to two days, which led to three or more, so Neal never did take that _one day_. It was a good time for him to sit and concentrate, to focus, to think, as his body mechanically followed the routine he had set for it long ago.

A few days on, Neal was facing reality. He was the Lord Queenscove. Sirius had checked the Book of Gold, kept at the Ministry, and confirmed it – Neal now appeared in the Book of Gold, the thirty-fifth Lord of Queenscove. Sirius had even peeked in the Wizengamot – the Queenscove seat, in the Gold section, was lit again, the graven letters reading _Queenscove _now beside the Black seat that Sirius himself sat in, two down from the ancient Peverell seat.

He still couldn't leave the grounds, not without a pounding headache. The only good thing, according to both Sirius and Blake, was that no one yet realized that the Queenscove seat had awoken. Once they did, he would have a line of potential allies and enemies pounding his doors, and no doubt when that happened, he would want to throw them all into the sea.

His castle might even comply. It was _unreasonably _accommodating of even his most ridiculous requests. It made him new bedrooms at his every whim – he had decided, one morning after writing a half-dozen letters to his family and friends about what had happened, that it would be nice to have bedrooms for everyone. The ones for Kel and Yuki (before she, in his dreams, moved into his rooms) had a distinct Japanese minimalism. Graeme's, Will's and Tina's were all done in with tasteful rustic Canadiana (the castle had point-blank refused to make one bedroom for Will and Tina, insisting on two). His parents' room had a huge four-poster bed, just like the one at home that Mom adored and that Dad always humoured her with. Neal didn't even know where his castle had found all the weapons to stack Fei's room with, and Jessa's room was fit for a princess. Even Dom had a bedroom, stacked with a liquor cabinet that Neal knew Dom would quite happily drink his way through.

When others, like Archie or Sirius, came by, the castle always delighted in making _more _rooms for them, even if they only rarely stayed the night. The castle _hoped_ – the castle wanted to be bustling and busy, the castle wanted a dozen Queenscoves and their families living in it, sleeping in its bedrooms, training in its lists, drinking tea in its parlours, sewing in its solars, studying in its library. It wanted feasts in the hall again, and with the amount in the Queenscove trust, the one that Lord Gershom had set aside almost a thousand years ago, feasts that Neal could well afford. He had almost fainted looking at the amount in the Queenscove trust – it was more than he could spend in a lifetime, especially with a puppy-dog of a castle that seemed to give him everything he wanted on a whim anyway.

Even the house-elves, once Neal had gotten used to them, were too eager to please. He had breakfast laid out for him every morning, at eight-thirty after he had finished his exercises, then Sirius or Archie would be over – Sirius to help him deal with getting control over his castle, and Archie, sometimes with Hermione, just to check in on him. After they left, Neal would ensconce himself in the massive Queenscove library (stacked overmuch, he thought, with treatises on chivalry), looking for ways out of his dilemma while his castle whimpered and fretted that he wanted to _leave_ in the back of his head. There was lunch out in the kitchens, ready whenever he wanted it, and dinner at seven each night – again, in the kitchens, because _hell_ if Neal was going to have a formal dinner _alone_ in his hall. No matter what his overgrown puppy of a castle wanted.

Sometimes, Francesca would come by in the afternoons, if she worked up the nerve to try the Floo – she loved his castle, and could often be found reading or daydreaming in a patch of sunlight in one of his south-facing solars. If she was there, he could bet that Blake would be by later that day, looking for her, a No-Maj science or math textbook under one arm. He always knew when they arrived – the wards would vibrate, his castle would tell him who it was and where they were, giving him a quick image of them if he wanted.

"In the blue solar," he would say, when Blake poked his head in the doorway to the library, not even looking up from whatever book he was reading on noble manors or noble obligations or whatever it was, trying to find a way _out_. "_Comme toujours_."

A shifting of feet. "_Merci_," the other boy would mutter, and his accent was tolerable, if not good.

"_De rien_," Neal would reply, flipping a page. "But be careful, eh? John is overprotective. With some reason, though I won't say _good _reason."

"I have no intentions on her person," Blake would snap, orange-yellow eyes flashing, his voice stiff. Neal thought he even believed it.

"Sure. Just don't do anything in my castle, buddy."

It took him almost two weeks, all told, to realize that there was no way out. It was just as Blake had said – once bound, the Lord of a noble house was _bound_, and the only ways out were by a challenge, preferably from his father or one of his siblings, or death. He could just imagine his brothers: Graeme would laugh so hard he cracked a rib, then refuse because _who wanted responsibility, _and Will would just smile angelically and remind Neal that he had told him not to do it and Neal had made his bed and would just have to lie in it. Mom and Dad had a life in Montreal, and Jessa – he wouldn't even _allow_ Jessa to challenge him for title. If one of them had to be stuck in a dangerous country, a dangerous political situation, better him than Jessa.

But it _sucked_. _Criss_, it sucked. He wanted to go home. He wanted a massive tray of poutine from La Banquise, he wanted to stop at Schwarz's for smoked meat. He wanted to hike up Mont Royale in the middle of the city; he wanted to walk down Rue St. Catharines, enjoying the food, the parties, the beer. He wanted to risk his life on those rickety little stairways so common on l'Île de Montréal under a foot of snow, he wanted to freeze his ass off in the cold Quebec winter, he wanted to yell at his siblings about who had to go clear out the training yard in the morning (his vote was either Graeme or Jessa – they had _fire_ to throw around).

He didn't want to be stuck halfway around the world, away from his family, away from his friends. He didn't want to have a noble seat, and a castle, in the middle of a country he would never belong in, where they would call him a _blood traitor_, where they discriminated against newbloods and halfbloods. He didn't want to have anything at all to do with Wizarding Britain!

He had broken into the liquor cabinet in Dom's bedroom, pulling out a bottle of Firewhiskey. He wasn't normally much of a drinker, but he figured that this realization was one where a drink (or three) was necessary. He was stuck. Trapped. Stranded. Lost in time and space. He poured his first glass of Firewhiskey and threw it back with a bit of a grimace.

"Drinking alone?"

Neal knew the voice by now – a little mocking, a little sarcastic.

"_Tais-toi_, Blake," he muttered. He actually had no idea how proficient the other boy was in French. Pleasantries, basics, he certainly understood, most of the swear words he didn't. He wondered if _shut up_ would go over Blake's head. "Weren't you just leaving?"

Blake tilted his head, orange-yellow eyes thoughtful. "I was – but somehow I suspect Archie and the Lord Black would be less than pleased to hear that I left you drinking alone."

Neal offered him the bottle, but Blake grimaced and turned away. Neal shrugged, pulling the bottle back towards himself. "You'll still be leaving me drinking alone, if you aren't drinking."

Something flashed in Blake's eyes, and he came into the kitchen and sat down across from him, arms crossed. "Trust me, Queenscove, were I capable of drinking, I would have drunk myself to St. Mungo's by now." A weighty pause, then he looked down, away, and his voice was a little softer. "My best friend, before all this – he told me if he caught me with another drink in hand, he'd force me into rehabilitation."

There was silence as Neal processed his words, then he pulled the Firewhiskey even farther away from Blake and wrapped his arms around it, like a stuffed toy. "Guess none for you, then. Too bad."

Blake studied him for a few minutes. Then, with a heavy sigh and a disgusted mutter, something about how _Hufflepuff_ he was becoming, he pulled out his wand and summoned a glass, then filled it with water. "So? Why _are_ you drinking alone?"

Neal glared at him and poured a himself second glass of Firewhiskey. Firewhiskey wasn't even _good_. He and Dom would have still drunk it, laughing all the while, Graeme and Tina would have joined them, and Will would cross his arms and tell them all that they were going to destroy their livers. But he would run interference with Jessa anyway for them.

"Right, I suppose that's obvious," Blake muttered, taking a drink from his glass of water. "Well, that's an irony. I'd challenge you for title, were I blood-related. There are many advantages to your position."

Neal snorted softly. "I'm stuck, Blake. Trapped in a country I hate, in a place I don't belong. _Crissez_ the title and the money. I just want to be Neal Queenscove, third son. Healer. _Câlisse, _how am I supposed to get Yuki to fall in love with me from _Wizarding Britain? _I can't even leave Queenscove without blinding headaches."

"Well, the last one is easy enough to handle," Blake remarked, a little wry. "As surprised as I am to learn that you don't consider a castle, a noble title, and enough money to make the top twenty wealthiest families in Wizarding Britain assets enough to court someone, noble lords can and do leave their lands. Lord Potter is certainly gone right now, indefinitely so, having left his lands in the stewardship of Lord Black. You have only to let your lands settle down to having you as Lord, learn to trust you not to abandon them, and you can do the same. Assign your proxy in the Wizengamot to another Lord whose judgement you trust, leave your lands in the hands of a steward you trust. Queenscove will accept that, if it trusts you."

Neal made a face. It seemed counter-intuitive, almost dishonest – make his lands trust him, so he could hand them over to someone else and abandon them. Why couldn't he just be straight with his lands? _Hey, it was a mistake that I even prodded your primal keystone with my blood-and-bone imbued heirloom. I'm not your Lord – I was never supposed to be here. So let me go, eh?_

But he was stuck. Magically speaking, now that he was bound to the lands, he was the Lord Queenscove. There was no other acceptable way out, so maybe he had no choice. Maybe this was the only way out.

"How do I make the lands trust me?" His voice was quiet, and he brought his glass of Firewhiskey to his lips. "You – I've never – I'm not—"

"And I was raised to this." Blake smiled very slightly, though Neal picked up traces of sadness, resignation in his face, too. "And I enjoyed my status while I had it, I assure you. Rosier is quite different than Queenscove, newer, so our lands have less _personality_, shall we say? I expect I would be able to establish control within a week or so, but then I'd have to focus on the challenges to my title. My blood-status, my bastard lineage… I have many cousins, and were I to claim title, I would have little choice but to fight to keep it."

"Neither of my brothers are insane or stupid enough to want a castle," Neal replied bluntly, staring down at his glass of Firewhiskey. "They told me not to come. They told me that there would be nothing left for me here. I didn't listen – I just wanted to _see_ it."

Blake didn't seem to know what to say to that, and to be fair, Neal didn't think there was a response. Half-Chinese he might be, but his genes for alcohol tolerance came directly from the Queenscoves. He was sober enough to know that, in this, he and Blake were two opposites. Blake had been raised to nobility, raised to expect the title and everything that went with it, and then he had had that all taken away from him. Neal hadn't, and yet he found himself with all the things that Blake had lost. "Sorry," he muttered. "I shouldn't have said that."

Blake didn't reply for a minute, but then he nodded. "An apology was not necessary."

"Sorry. I'm Canadian." Neal rolled his eyes and took another sip of his Firewhiskey. "Apologizing is our way of life. I apologize as an introduction, I apologize to inanimate objects, I apologize for apologizing. Get used to it."

Blake laughed. It wasn't a very nice laugh, a little sharp, but if Neal had to choose a word to describe Blake, it would be _sharp_. He was too well put together, always wound up, tighter than a watch spring. "To return to your question, however, I think the first step to having your lands trust you would be accepting your new status and acting as the Lord you now are instead of looking for ways out. That means learning about and liaising with your fellow nobles, taking your seat on the Wizengamot. Attending parties and establishing your family's, and your House's, reputation. Learning which of your fellow nobles can be trusted to handle your proxy at the Wizengamot as _you_ would handle it, and who can be trusted to be a good steward for your land."

Neal stared into his glass of Firewhiskey. It didn't have any answers for him. It didn't even taste that good. "Exactly _none_ of that sounds appealing. I don't know any other nobles – I don't even know if I _want_ to know any other nobles. Sirius is one thing, but the rest…"

"The Lord Black is a unique case." Blake shook his head, raising his glass of water to his lips. "The Blacks are historically Dark, but the Lord Black is currently politically Neutral, though I'd say he is very likely to return to the Light faction now that Archie is, well, Archie. He has a very close alliance with the Potters, who hold the Peverell seat. He does, however, also have to maintain a delicate balancing act with his family's traditional allies, such the Malfoys, and Archie's mother was a Fawley: Book of Silver, Light, but pureblood supremacists. Not the Rosiers, my … former family was considered a little too lower class for them, since we are only Book of Copper. It is only in the last generation, with our wealth, that we were able to enjoy the same prestige as the Blacks."

Neal paused, looking the other boy over as he nursed his water, looking very much like he wanted something stronger. "You know a lot."

"Raised to it."

"Do you regret it? What happened, being disowned…"

Blake shrugged, a little stiff, and there was a pause before he replied. "It is what it is, Queenscove. I miss some things – I miss the power, the prestige, and the money. But my House was different than yours; politically, it is part of the SOW Party, which means blood status is incredibly important, as is our image. With my gift, my blood-status would have come out one way or another, and I did not like hiding my talent. I did not like fearing, at every step, that my friends and my family would reject me if they found out."

"And you were disowned," Neal replied flatly. "They found out, and you were disowned. Sorry."

Blake laughed again, this one a little lighter, more genuine. "And somehow, the reality of that is better than the fear. I am more free now than I have ever been in my entire life, Queenscove. I can wear what I want to wear, do what I want to do, say what I want to say without worrying about how it will be taken. My family still supports me, very quietly so, and a few of my old acquaintances have reached out to me. Not many, but a few. It is what it is."

"I see." Neal was silent for a few minutes, thinking it over. Blake knew a lot, and if Neal had to kick around in Wizarding Britain for a while, learning how to be the Lord Queenscove, meeting nobles and pretending to be chummy with them, then Blake could be a useful reference and ally. And if he did have to set up the Queenscove reputation, then he might as well do it properly. "Would you help me? You know a lot of these people, their reputations, their positions, and I don't. I have no idea how I'm supposed to become a noble Lord that my lands feel like they can trust."

There was silence, and Blake's expression seemed to be a combination of mingled respect with surprise with humour. "What's in it for me?"

"I could pay you."

"I have a job." Blake shrugged diffidently. "It pays me well enough. Do better than that, Queenscove."

"I could just _not_ tell John about how many hours you spend not-flirting with his quasi-sister in my castle." Neal glared at him. He was pretty sure that Blake was only joking about the money – Blake _himself_ had said, only a few minutes ago, that he missed having money. "I could also swear not to back him up when he inevitably finds out and wants me to help him thrash you for it."

Blake laughed, probably the most genuine laugh Neal had heard from him all night. "Blackmail? Better, but no. There's _nothing_ going on there, Queenscove."

"You wish there were, though."

"No, I don't," Blake denied, and Neal snorted disbelievingly in reply. Blake sighed, looking away, almost a little regretful. "No, truly. Someone as beautiful as her deserves someone who can provide for her, with his own manor and a Gringotts account that can buy her whatever she wants. Someone with status, not a halfblood bastard who lives with his mother."

"I don't think that's true, but sure." Neal was silent for a minute. "Sixty Galleons a month."

"A hundred and fifty."

"This isn't a full-time job, Blake, don't pretend like it is one. Eighty."

"A hundred."

"Eighty, and I'll promise not to tell John about what you've been getting up to with Francesca in my blue solar, not to back him up when he inevitably comes to me wanting my help to thrash you, and not to bother you and Francesca when you're here, at least not without good reason. Does that work?" Neal glared at him, throwing back what remained of his second glass of Firewhiskey.

Blake was silent for a few minutes, thinking it over, then he smirked. "Throw in a ten percent bonus for good performance, Queenscove, and I think we have a deal. Give me a few days to prepare the contract. I'll be by on Saturday and be prepared to memorize a hundred family names and their reputations."

XXX

Life was different on the other side.

His first day had been good – overwhelming, but good. He had a new image, he had tried new things, he had let himself be swept up in Archie's enthusiasm and excitement over his birthday, as much as he could have been. He had eaten too much strange food, he had figured out how to use chopsticks, and everything had been interesting. A little unnerving, yes, but interesting.

It was over the next few days that things started sinking in. He wasn't Aldon Rosier anymore. He was Aldon Blake – subject of scandal, non-noble. Not _poor_, because it turned out that Christie was quite wealthy in her own right, but not as wealthy as he had once been. The first time he had walked into Diagon Alley, after coming to, had been a shock.

"Is that—" He heard someone mutter, behind him.

"Hush. Don't stare," he heard a woman's voice saying. "Don't look at him."

"What is he _wearing?_" That gasp had been more familiar – he had looked up, looked around for the source, finally identifying it as Tracey Davis, one of the underclassmen in Slytherin House. She was side by side with Daphne Greengrass, and Aldon had a sudden flashback of gripping the girl's magical core, squeezing like it was an overripe orange. He remembered everything – he remembered _enjoying_ her gasps of pain, her tears, and the knowledge that if he just squeezed a little harder, her little core would pop and her magic would flood her system, burning her from the inside out. He turned away sharply, trying to shake the memory from his head (those weren't _his _feelings, were they?) and headed back down the street. He was just going to Flourish and Blotts, anyway.

The whispers followed him, uncomfortable, and the salesperson at the bookshop would barely look at him while Aldon bought his books – just a few Runes books, this time, though the books both at Christie's penthouse and at his new workplace were really very good. Still, the whole experience had been uncomfortable, and he avoided Diagon to the extent that he could. Only a few of his many contacts – Pansy Parkinson and Lucian Bole – had reached out to him by owl since he had resurfaced, but neither had suggested meeting with him. Not that he knew where they would meet, if they asked. Not Diagon Alley, with its whispers – certainly not the Muggle world.

The Muggle world was strange, too new without Archie or one of his friends. At least, in Diagon Alley, he had known what everything was and how to go about his business – he didn't even have that in the Muggle world. He had gotten lost, the first two times he had left his new home without someone, having to work his way home with a number of quiet _Point Me_ spells, before he figured out that he could Apparate quite conveniently into the emergency stairwell in his mother's building. _That_, more than anything, had been a lifesaver in terms of getting lost.

Muggle technology was _everywhere_. It was fascinating and frustrating by turns – one moment, he would be staring in wonder at the television, telling him the news or stories from around the world, and the next, he would be swearing at the coffeemaker. He just wanted a bloody cup of coffee – why did the thing have so many _parts_? What was wrong with a good old _French press_?

"Do you need some help, Aldon?" Christie would always ask, her voice filled with uncertainty.

"No, no," Aldon would reply, sweating and trying to put a smile on his face for her. "I'm just – I'll be fine."

She would always come and help him anyway.

He still didn't know how he was supposed to treat her. She was his mother, and over the last few weeks, possessed or not, she had gone out of her way to care for him. He didn't comprehend the sheer amount of love she must have had for him, knowing so little about him – she had accepted the upheaval of her life with no complaints, put him in her guest bedroom without question, now went out of her way to try to see that he had all the things he was used to having, all the things he liked to have around him. He knew that she expected his father to take him back eventually, and she believed that Aldon would still have the life that she had once given him up for: the noble Rosier title, the world at his feet. For her, it was just about getting through these next few months, these next few years, and Aldon would resume his proper place in Society. Everything she offered him came with those words: _I know it's hard, sweetheart, but it's only for a little while. Eveline and your father and I, we'll sort it out for you._

Aldon didn't know how to tell her that his mother and father weren't that good as people, and politics didn't work that way.

At least work was going well. He had worked at the New Developments Division and liked it before, but the new company, as _Blake & Associates, _was very different. It was smaller than the New Developments Division had been, because some of the staff had left rather than follow Chris to her new company. Master Phillips, the Potions Master, had left for a job at a private development company, and their Runes Mistress, Marion Thornbury, had opted to emigrate to America given the changing politics. Her departure, at least, left Aldon with a clear position – he had a NEWT in Ancient Runes, and even without a Mastery, someone needed to be there to handle the Runes-based project submissions. The rest of the team that he remembered was still there: Ryu Takahashi, the brooms expert; Aman Kaur, their resident Defense Mistress; Albert McEvoy, the experimental Charms researcher.

None of them said anything about Aldon's changed circumstances when he returned. Rather, Aman greeted him with a warm hug and announced that he would have the desk next to her, Ryu brought in a cheesecake, made by his wife, to celebrate his return, and Albert complimented him on his new look. Everyone else was dressed differently too – they were in the City, so wizarding robes were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were neat, pressed dresses for the women, slacks and collared shirts for the men. Even compared to the rest, Aldon was a little overdressed, but he preferred it that way.

No one mentioned his new last name, no one said anything about the newly revealed relationship between him and their boss, who now just went by _Christie_ and not _Director Blake_. "We're not much for standing on ceremony, here," she had told him with a smile, his first day. "It's not like at the Trust, where we were part of a bigger enterprise, so we had to keep to some of the same standards as the rest of the company. It's more secure here, too, for us, so we're free to say what we want to say. Less risk of being overheard."

That part was true, Aldon thought wryly. Finding his way to the office had been an adventure. He would have liked to Apparate there, but there really wasn't a good Apparition point in the City. The City was the financial heart of London, and even if it was _tiny_, maybe only a square mile in size, it seemed like a million Muggles were commuting in to work there every day. The Underground was an utter nightmare of people, but after a week of fruitless searching for a good Apparition point, he had simply realized that there was no better option. Safe Apparition into the City just couldn't be done – not unless he left an opening in the office wards for Apparition, and that was, from a security point of view, completely unacceptable.

Then, they were on the twenty-fourth floor of a tall, glass office tower. The first time Aldon had gotten into the little box that shot off in the sky, he had fought not to show any sign of his panic as the doors closed, with him and twelve other people in it. His ears popped when they raced up the floors, so many floors. There were lifts in the wizarding world, of course – the Ministry of Magic had one. But that one was quite a bit slower, and it only went down eleven floors, not the _sixty-eight_ floors that his office tower had. It was enough floors that there were separate banks of elevators to take, depending on which floor they needed – the first bank serviced only the first sixteen floors, the next the next sixteen, and so on.

His office, too, was very different than the old space at the Rosier Investment Trust. Instead of _no_ windows, they now had light streaming in from all four walls. All of them had desks close to the tinted windows, with blinds if they wanted a bit of shade, and there were huge tables for meetings in the middle, with glass-enclosed meeting rooms dotting the space here and there. Those tables and meeting rooms were also useful when any of them needed a bit more space, such as when Aldon needed to spread out massive runic diagrams, nearly crawling over the tables to examine them in detail. The office was bright, cheerful, open, and all the chairs were weird _plastic _and they spun and rolled and there didn't seem to be anything magic about them at all.

Aldon had a plastic _keycard_, too, to get access into his office itself. There were wards, hiding their magic and protecting the space, but Chris had deemed that an extra layer of Muggle security, with an electronic card-lock and security system, was worth it. Aldon's first project at the new Blake & Associates had been to redo all the magical wards; he didn't know who had constructed the wards before, but they weren't, in his view, strong enough. He had strengthened them, added an extra six loops of protective charms, two concealment charms, and a soundproofing spell, all carefully avoiding the delicate Muggle electronics.

The last part had made him glad that he had approached Francesca about her inventions in his week off, before starting work. She was, now that he had gotten to speaking with her, utterly and completely brilliant as well as stunningly beautiful, but he didn't quite know what to make of her. That first day, as soft as her voice had been, she had been awkward, abrupt – she had walked him through her device with little fanfare, then abandoned him in a Muggle public library. The next, when he had surprised her with some of his own collection of magical theory textbooks while she read in the formal sitting room at Grimmauld Place (he had noted what she was researching, before), she had given him a test of his _numerical analysis_ abilities.

He was endlessly thankful that he had taken Arithmancy and NEWT-level Transfiguration for that. Arithmancy, NEWT-level Transfiguration, and his summer working in the New Developments Division, because he didn't think anyone without those would have fared half so well. And he hadn't even finished it! She had taken it from him, checked it over with a dark, critical, beautiful eye, then apparently decided he was worth his salt and taken him to a bookshop like he had never seen, full of books about numbers and things he didn't know or understand. Then, she had taken him to the introductory sections, pulling out heavy, glossy books and dropping them in his arms.

But she had smiled, there. She had smiled, _at him, _as she dropped the last book, one on _electromagnetic theory_, into his arms, and the smile had lit up her whole face. It had taken his breath away, and he had thought, for a split instant, that he would do nearly anything for another smile like that. Then, after she had helped him sort out the purchase of the books, she had said she was hungry and suggested eating something, so he had found himself in a dark, tiny, almost _intimate_ place, his knees bumping into hers underneath their tiny table despite his best efforts, slurping up a bowl of what she called _ramen_.

"This place is all right," she had confided quietly to him. "Students like it, and it's cheap, but I've had better ramen."

He had agreed, because he hadn't known what else to do.

As hard as her test of his numerical analysis had been, the books she had gotten him were worse. He cottoned on to most of the concepts quickly, but the problems posed at the end of every section were challenging. He found a reason, almost every day, to swing by Grimmauld Place, to work through them and ask her questions. She always put down what she was reading to help him, if he needed it.

Sometimes, sitting across from him, she would have one of his magical theory books. He wished, sometimes, that she would ask him for help too, but she never seemed to need it. Once she finished each book, she would put it down on the table, pull out one of her innumerable _notebooks_, and sit there, legs pulled up in front of her, a pen decorated teddy bears in her hand, lost in thought. Other times, she would have her nose in a light _paperback_, like nothing he had ever seen before; once, when she had gone off in search of a tray of tea, he had swiped it and flipped through it. It had been a romance – something sweet, about a ghostly knight who fell in love with the girl who lived in his castle. He had swallowed, feeling a little guilty for having looked, and put it back before she could know that he had ever picked it up.

She made him tea, a few times. She said it was nothing, and she was making tea for herself, too, but it didn't _feel_ like nothing. She even put out milk and sugar, and she was always careful to top off his mug before touching hers. It felt like _something_, when she poured tea into a mug and handed it to him, when her fingers brushed against his as he accepted it.

Her hands were small, pretty, her nails decorated with tiny, enamel flowers. Her hair was always perfect, either flowing down her back, or pinned up and back, falling in a cascade around her shoulders. The way she tucked herself up in her chair, both legs up – she was small, delicate, fragile. If there was one thing that Aldon missed about being a Rosier, it was the power, the money that had come with being the Rosier Heir. If he were Aldon _Rosier, _he could consider courting her – but then, if he were Aldon _Rosier_, he wouldn't be sitting across from her now, watching her read. And Aldon Rosier wouldn't have known the first thing about appreciating her; Aldon Rosier would have dismissed her as pretty but irrelevant, because she was a Muggleborn, because she didn't have a wand, and because she had no connections of note.

Life was strange.

The new Lord Queenscove was a surprise – Aldon had been nearly about to leave, when Archie's friend had tumbled out of the Floo, panicked and terrified, newly bound to his lands. Aldon couldn't help but mock him, a little, but Francesca had looked at him, frowning a little, so he had desisted. She had never said if she and the new Lord Queenscove were friends, but he guessed that they had to be on good terms when she started disappearing to Queenscove some afternoons, curling up in one of the Lord Queenscove's parlours to read.

He would have been jealous, if he thought there was anything there. But there wasn't. The Lord Queenscove simply seemed not to notice the beautiful girl in his castle, and merely gave Aldon directions on where to find her if he went after her. It was Queenscove's disinterested and dismissive hospitality towards himself and Francesca that had made Aldon stop when he had caught the new Lord Queenscove drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Firewhiskey.

He had gotten something out of it, though. An extra eighty Galleons a month, with a bonus for good performance, that topped up his income very nicely. He did have to guide a bumbling foreigner, who swore in the strangest French that he had ever heard, through Wizarding British Society for it, but he thought that Queenscove would shine, when he was done with him. He wouldn't be a part of the SOW Party, that much was obvious, but Aldon hoped he wouldn't fall in line so easily with the Light faction, either. He wouldn't like for Queenscove to simply become another one of Lord Dumbledore's nameless, faceless cronies, and besides, having another noble in his corner for his next plans could be useful.

Queenscove, after all, came from a world where there was no nobility. He hadn't been noble before, and he didn't really seem to care for it. Queenscove came from a world where there was rule of law for all, instead of rule by privilege; where _everyone_ had a vote in how the country's affairs were run. Now, wasn't that an idea?

"Widespread enfranchisement," Aldon announced, taking a seat beside Archie in the Grimmauld Place kitchen. Hermione, sitting on Archie's other side, shot him a considering look. At the table were also Derrick Holden, newly employed stocking shelves at Quality Quidditch Supplies and Isran Ali, a week away from returning to America for a job as an international political analyst for _The New York Ghost_. From Ireland, Sean Docherty and Saiorse Riordan had come, both halfbloods, and from Scotland, there was Toby MacLean, a Muggleborn, oddly dressed in shorts but a long-sleeved shirt. Percy Weasley was there, wearing a thoughtful frown, and John was newly back from Germany, sitting beside Francesca. The Lord Black hovered by the counter, side by side with Remus Lupin, both of whom looked distinctly uneasy. Queenscove had said he was interested, but he still wasn't able to leave his lands, so Aldon or Archie would have to carry news to him later.

Aldon had done the secrecy wards himself for this conversation. Seventeen spells, to trap the conversation within. He had even bound everyone in the spell that Alex had shown him, some six months ago – he hadn't _remembered _it, but with a communication orb between them, it had only taken him about sixteen tries to get Alex's attention, and the spell. He was as confident as he could possibly be that they could talk safely. "What is the difference between Wizarding Britain and most other countries? Widespread enfranchisement. The vote. We can't force the repeal of the blood discrimination laws directly, not with the political system we have currently – if we could, Lord Dumbledore would have been successful decades ago. And, frankly, even if we were successful, even if we did to change the laws now, there would be no guarantee it couldn't change right back later. We need structural change – widespread emancipation is the answer."

There was silence for a minute. Judging from their expressions, Lupin and the Lord Black were unconvinced, as Aldon expected they would be – he was fairly certain that they were here largely to try to _dissuade_ them all from doing anything rash. Or maybe, to dissuade them from doing anything at all. Aldon had let Archie invite whomever he pleased to the meeting, whomever he trusted, and Aldon was there to assess them all and make sure that none of them talked.

But Hermione was nodding, though she wore a slight scowl. The scowl was because _Aldon_ had suggested it, he was sure.

"Aldon is right," she said. Aldon smirked – if Hermione agreed, despite her personal distaste for him, he could count on his reasons being well-supported. "The largest problem has always been that the nobility, which is nearly entirely pureblood, has held total control over the political process for centuries. Some nobles advocate for newbloods and halfbloods, but that is largely a matter of sympathy – they don't _live_ our experiences. If we manage to bring about widespread enfranchisement, it completely changes the picture – for the first time, we'll be able to advocate for _ourselves_."

"There's no guarantee that the blood equality laws will change just because the vote is widespread," Lupin offered, his voice gentle. "Most of the recognized citizens of Wizarding Britain are also purebloods, and you may find that they are no easier to sway than nobles."

Sean glared at him. "_Some_ political voice is better than _no_ political voice," he snapped. "Not all newbloods and halfbloods are undocumented. With widespread enfranchisement, we could also lobby better for a change in the citizenship laws. It's a step forward, at least."

Lupin held his hands up as a gesture of peace. "I'm only pointing it out for consideration. I, too, am a halfblood."

"The bigger issue is the matter of political support," Aldon interrupted, before anyone else could cut in. So, Sean was quick to anger – that was important to know. People who were quick to anger were not people that Aldon wanted to see in a revolution. Sean would need to be handled carefully. "The fact of the matter is, everyone who currently _has_ political power already has an entrenched position on halfblood and Muggleborn rights. They are frequently deadlocked, and we are unlikely to succeed without more sources of political support."

Isran was nodding, thoughtful. "If we advocate for widespread emancipation, it opens the political landscape to more players – it gives us political support from people who never had a voice before, it gets them interested in issues. We can begin organizing if people are interested."

"And shaping ourselves around widespread enfranchisement draws in purebloods who may not care about the blood equality laws, but do care about certain, _other_ outstanding problems," Saoirse added, shooting Sean a warning look and putting one hand on his arm, while Toby leaned forward in interest. "The prohibitions on traditional casting, for example. Greater representation for shifter interests, or Guild interests."

The three of them shared a look, and Aldon made a note of it. Certain, _other _outstanding problems, they said, with specific mentions of the prohibitions on traditional casting and other interests, then that look. Aldon would parade naked down Diagon Alley if all three of them didn't have other interests, and likely something in common. Ireland and Scotland, two halfbloods and a Muggleborn, from two different American schools – what did they have in common?

There was a sharp intake of breath, from Percy, who shook his head. "How, exactly, are you planning on proceeding with this? How are you planning on building support for your cause? You're all going to be arrested for sedition, if not something else."

"Isn't that what _you're_ here for?" Derrick grinned, his eyes sharp even as he lounged in his seat. "Telling us how we can do this without being arrested and sent to Azkaban?"

Percy glared at him, then reached for the pitcher of water that Archie had thought to put out earlier, before the meeting had started in earnest. He poured himself a glass and didn't dignify Derrick with a response.

"I do think that Percy has a point," the Lord Black said, breaking into the silence and stepping forward to stand beside Archie. "What you're proposing is dangerous. Justice has come out and said the laws were unjust, and Archie was only convicted on a technicality. The Light faction can now push for a repeal of the laws in the Wizengamot. I appreciate that you're all idealistic and want change, but this isn't the way."

There was a long moment of silence, and there was more than one tense face around the room. Aldon leaned back, interested in seeing how Archie would deal with this – the Lord Black was Archie's father, but these were Archie's allies, and if he had read the room correctly, none of them would be comfortable leaving it to the Light faction. Aldon certainly wasn't.

Archie was frowning, but he didn't respond right away, seeming to think it over. Hermione had her lips pursed beside him, while Isran was carefully looking down. Sean and Derrick were exchanging dark looks, and Toby was fiddling self-consciously with one of his sleeves. The silence stretched, longer than comfortable, while Aldon studied everyone at the table in turn. Francesca was huddled close to John, gravitating to him as she always had before, tugging at his arm to get his attention. Once she had it, he would have thought she would have whispered something to him, but instead they only exchanged a long look, then turned their attention back to the rest of the table.

It was Saoirse who broke the silence, her blue eyes flashing, voice hard. Her hands were clasped in front of her on the table, white with the strength of her grip, and she was pointedly looking at the Lord Black, _not_ at Archie.

"And what is _your_ way, Lord Black?" she asked, her voice shaking a little with repressed anger. "Continue as you are, as you and Dumbledore and your cronies have for forty years, barely able to stem the tide of legislation against us? You don't stand with us, Black – you aren't there when we're arrested for things they let you off on, you don't get stopped and held for questioning like we do, you aren't exiled from your ancestral lands like we are. Your first language is not banned, as mine is, on pain of death – you did not need to teach Archie the ways of your people late at night, under the strongest wards your people knew how to cast. You were not forced to watch your uncle be executed for speaking his language when you were seven."

She wasn't crying. Instead, she was speaking with an iron-cast sort of strength. _Your people_, Aldon noted. _We. Us._ That language, that intonation –Saoirse Riordan spoke for a people. Traditional casters, if Aldon had to guess, much like Cedric. He wondered if Cedric had answers – he would need to meet with him and find out. He moved on, looking over the other two in her group. Sean wore a mulish expression, but Toby was fiddling with his sleeve again, and Aldon was struck with the temptation to demand that he pull up his sleeves and show them all what he was hiding.

"Sympathy only goes so far, Lord Black – I'm hardly surprised that, now that _your_ son is safe, you're done. I'm not done – I and my people will not be done until we can walk free again, until we can speak our language in the open. You say we should rely on you. I say, fuck you. _Your _people aren't dying." Saoirse leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, a cool expression on her face, waiting for an answer to her challenge.

Archie stood up, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. He was speaking slowly, picking his words carefully, but his grey eyes were bright, direct.

"You're right, Saoirse," he said, and Aldon had the impression that he meant it. "You're absolutely right – we don't understand. I could never understand what you and your people have gone through. People need to speak, advocate, and _vote_ for themselves instead of being forced to rely on the whims of strangers."

He took a breath, looking at the Lord Black, a pleading note in his grey eyes. "Dad, if you died tomorrow, Uncle Regulus would be the custodian of both the Black and Potter seats. That would _seriously _change the balance of power in the Wizengamot, and that's not right. The system is inherently unstable, with individual people mattering more than ideas or rights."

There was another long pause, though Aldon noted that the Lord Black's expression had changed, darkened, as he looked away. He was still listening, Aldon thought, he just wasn't sure he liked what he was hearing. In his turn, Archie sighed, looking back around the table. "But you know, Saoirse, I promised, in my interview in the _American_ _Standard_, that I would advocate for change, and I will. But you know better than anyone that it's dangerous, so let's talk about making it _less _dangerous. Percy, can you tell us about the sedition laws? What can we do, how can we avoid them?"

Percy sighed, running one hand through flaming red hair. Aldon wasn't entirely sure why Percy had come – of all the Weasley children, he would have marked Percy as being the _least _likely to become involved in any revolutionary mission. Then again, Percy had been Archie's lawyer through the trial, his legal practice was founded on Muggleborn and halfblood criminal cases, and he had been willing to summon Justice for them. Percy wasn't his brothers, but he brought something else to the table.

"I can't tell you which laws will be relevant unless I know what you're thinking about doing," Percy said, gesturing helplessly with his hands. "A public speech, rally, or any public gathering? You'll be charged with disturbing the peace and unlawful assembly. If some members have gone in disguise to your gathering, they'll also be charged with wearing a disguise to the unlawful assembly. Then, the speeches themselves – if there's any encouragement to violence or breaking the law, you're looking at sedition. If anyone in the audience works for the Ministry, you're looking at an aggravated charge of sedition for encouraging a member of the Ministry to subvert the state. And then, of courses, any number of things could happen at your gathering that could cause problems – if the Aurors come and people don't go quietly, it will be assaulting an Auror, obstruction of justice, common assault, assault with a weapon…"

"So, what I'm hearing is, no live assemblies," John said, voice dry, motioning for Archie to sit back down with one hand. "No public gatherings, no press conferences."

"I would strongly advise against it." Percy nodded slowly, tilting his head a little in consideration. "No public gatherings. They can do less about private meetings, but even that … let's say we found a noble manor large enough to host a press conference – while we might avoid the unlawful assembly charge that way, there would still be the sedition issue."

"The SOW Party has press conferences," Hermione muttered under her breath, scowling, putting her head in her hands. "We had press conferences in the Triwizard Tournament."

"The SOW Party also has considerable political power." Percy shrugged, reaching for his glass of water. "They will not be charged for doing the same things that you might want to, and that is a reality that you need to accept. And in the Triwizard Tournament, all the press conferences were held under the lens of the International Confederation of Wizards. You don't have that protection anymore."

"And that means no protest marches or sit-ins." Archie shook his head, looking strangely disappointed. "Damn it. I always wanted to do a sit-in at the Ministry, but I guess we wouldn't have enough people for that yet anyway. All right. If we take out any public gathering, a press conference, and everything of that nature, what are we left with?"

There was a long, drawn-out pause, before Hermione spoke. "We were getting word out about Archie's trial – Archie's _American Standard _interview went out that way, too. We have the information network we need to spread a paper, and we can probably work up funding through the BIA if we keep it above-board."

Another moment of silence, before Derrick spoke up, tilting his head, first one way, then the other, in thought. "Low quality paper, something cheap, and we get a No-Maj printing press and set up in the No-Maj world, keep the cost low. No charms to make the pictures move. We can recoup some of the funds through advertisements, in time, but let's keep the paper free. We'll have to subsidize it through the BIA and private funding – the Prophet's costs are subsidized by the Ministry, that's how they can use such high-quality paper and charm it and keep the costs as low as they are."

"Those can all be treated as stylistic choices," Toby volunteered, a smile coming across his face as he leaned forward in interest. "We don't use the high-quality paper, we don't have moving pictures, but we tell it like it is – a paper by the people, for the people. It's just the same thing we did for the trial, but on a bigger scale."

"It works with what Archie's been doing so far, too – it's platform to keep changing the public perception of newbloods and halfbloods, as well as to put out a lot of other things that the _Daily Prophet _wouldn't publish." Lupin added, almost the first time he had spoken all evening, his voice quiet.

John nodded, with Francesca leaning against his arm. He exchanged quick look with her, then he smiled. "I like that idea. You can include, not just the Wizarding British political news or analysis, but No-Maj news, international news, reports from the ICW. No-Maj book, movie or TV show reviews."

Aldon's eyes lingered on the two of them for a brief second. There was something between the two of them – Aldon hadn't formed his impression that they were betrothed from nothing. John was gay, and he had a boyfriend in Germany, and he did see Francesca as a little sister, and all those things were true, but there was something else there between them. John was a Natural Legilimens, but even if John could read her mind, that didn't explain the way that Francesca's own expressions would shift, slightly, every time they had these long looks, these silent exchanges.

There was something between them, and even if it wasn't romantic, Aldon wanted to know what. He would have to find a way to find out, later. "The Ministry and SOW Party would likely let a paper go," he said, rejoining the conversation with barely any sign of where his thoughts had been, moments before. "There are several independent magazines and papers: _Witch Weekly, The Quibbler_, specialty magazines that run the spectrum from Quidditch to Ancient Runes. The Ministry has always stringently avoided the appearance of interfering with the press and has only relied on its heavy subsidy of the _Daily Prophet_ to control the media. The _Daily Prophet_ is the only daily paper and the cheapest paper, and it has never really had any competition in Wizarding Britain itself."

"We couldn't do a daily paper," Derrick interrupted, holding one hand up. "During the year, with most of you back in school or in America, it'll just be me – we can't possibly put out a daily paper. Twice weekly, tops, more likely once a week. I do have a job. And content – what do we do for content? Aside from the movie and book reviews, we have to have something of substance, and we can't just _repeat_ the news in the _Prophet._"

"More analysis, more correction." Isran smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile – he had ideas. "Who wants to write a weekly analysis correcting the _Prophet_, with citations?"

Derrick laughed out loud. "That would take too much paper, to correct _everything! _We're trying to keep costs _down_, Isran."

"But the major factual inaccuracies…" Hermione, too, was smiling. "I can do it, or I can split it with Isran or someone else. Under a pseudonym? Should we use pseudonyms?"

"Percy?" Archie asked, looking at the barrister, whose forefinger was tapping against the table in thought, blue eyes staring off into the distance. "What are the risks of a paper?"

"Depends what's in it." Percy sighed, turning his attention back to the table. "Reviews of Muggle books or movies aren't going to attract attention, and correcting the _Prophet_ is likely only going to only be seen as an inter-paper fight, while Muggle news is mostly going to be seen as entertaining. International news…"

He paused, thinking it over, then he shook his head. "The risks will be with independent reporting, opinion pieces, and the exact sort of advocacy you were looking to do – you cannot actively advocate against the Ministry, and any suggestion that people engage in illegal activities or violence will be grounds for a sedition charge. I don't know how far they will push it, so I would also avoid any suggestion of gathering. On the other hand, if it stays entirely on the ideas front… you may be able to avoid a charge. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement does not want a fuzzy case, and they do not want another trial so soon after the last. They know that Archie is willing to summon Justice to his aid, and any trial with Justice is inherently unpredictable."

Aldon swallowed thickly, looking away, struck suddenly by memories. Not his memories – _hers_. A million trials, in a million different places, a million different crimes. Treason was a main theme, along with regicide, rebellion plots. He remembered death sentences with surprising clarity: gripping a person's core, squeezing and squeezing until the bonds were snapped, until magic flooded the person and burned them from the inside out. He remembered the screaming, the flames that would consume them as they died. Death was one of the better sentences; it was painful, but then it was over, and according to some, there was still the afterlife. Aldon also remembered, not through himself, the feeling of ripping out a soul – reaching beyond someone's magical core, past the thin, silvery boundary separating magic and soul, and tearing it out, releasing it into the wild. Then, the person would still breathe, they would still _live_, but there would be nothing there, and it would be up to their families to dispose of them. He remembered the overwhelming helplessness of being possessed – the terrifying distance, the uncaring, the inhumane focus on one, simple thing. He did not, in truth, want to summon Justice again.

He did not want to be across from one of his allies again. He did not want to remember squeezing _their_ cores until they exploded, he did not want to remember ripping out _their_ souls. He barely wanted to remember the delicate, surgical precision it had taken to separate Archie's gift from his core and dissipate it into the air, and that had been almost _interesting._ Aldon took a deep breath, his head spinning a little, as he forced himself to focus back on the conversation happening in front of him.

"It sounds like a paper will work," Archie was saying, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully, though the Lord Black's face was a dark cloud. "We can be careful not to directly challenge the Ministry, we'll go out of our way to tell people to follow the law, and pseudonyms will only make it safer. Do you think there'll be problems with pseudonyms?"

"Using pseudonyms would detract from our legitimacy." Hermione's voice trailed off, thinking.

"Not as much as of a problem as you would think," Lupin interrupted, from his position leaning next to the counter. His voice was mild, but Aldon thought he saw a slight glimmer of interest. "Most of the people reading your paper are going to understand the risks. Pseudonyms would be a good idea, as much as possible."

"We could launch it with an interview with Archie – do it right before he heads back to America," Isran added, drawing an arc on the table with his hands. "Then, Archie is in America when it's released, and hopefully by the time the holidays come around, it's blown over. We'll have to be careful about what he says, but it's an additional measure of security for us all."

"So, what do we call it?" Archie was nearly bouncing in his seat, already a hundred percent behind this new plan. That was clearly something that they had toned down for his last public interview – his excitability. His natural enthusiasm was good, but it did need to be controlled. "We need a name! Otherwise, how will people remember us?"

That was true, and Aldon grimaced. They did need a name, one that expressed who they were with a few words. Ideally, it would be one that Archie himself, or the people who knew the target market, would come up with – it had to be something they could connect with. As much as Aldon was a halfblood, he was stuck between two worlds, with neither enough experience to belong with the Muggleborns and halfbloods, nor the blood-status to belong in his old world.

The silence stretched on, most of them thinking. Francesca stood up, but only to reach for the teapot, clean it out, and to make a pot of tea for the table. There weren't enough mugs for everyone, nor enough tea, but she filled all the mugs and offered them around anyway. Aldon was bizarrely pleased that he was one of the first people to whom that she offered a mug.

"It's a paper by the people, for the people, that's the reputation you want," John spoke up finally, waving off a mug of tea. It had taken Aldon far too long to get a grasp on John – he was easygoing, but he was devoted and protective of his friends. That was why he was here, halfway around the world, helping to plot a rebellion in a country that was not his own. "In America, we have a saying – we the people. First words of the No-Maj American constitution. That's a little too American, but there's a starting point for you."

"How about _The People's Voice_? I don't love that," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Or maybe in Latin, the _Vox Populi_."

Saoirse gagged and shook her head, waving one hand. "Not in Latin. Nothing in Latin – it is associated with Latinate spellcasting among my people."

"And it's snobby," Toby added, grimacing. "We might cast spells in pseudo-Latin, but we don't speak it. Naming ourselves in Latin makes us sound elitist."

"Even anything with _the People_ – you will be criticized on whether you can truly represent the people," Percy added, his voice hesitant. Aldon wondered if Percy felt as awkward as he did – the Weasleys were purebloods, but they were non-noble blood traitors. He had been permitted to school at Hogwarts, but the Weasleys had never had any real status or prestige. "I suggest something else – perhaps look at the other content you intend on running. Reviews of Muggle movies and books, you had mentioned?"

"A link between worlds!" Archie blurted out, lighting up immediately, a wide grin spreading across his face. He had thrown his arms up in excitement. "No, a _bridge_ between worlds! _No, _wait, something like the _Report from the Bridge_, like in _Star Trek!"_

"No!" Hermione snapped, while half the table cracked up in laughter. As Aldon understood it, Archie had watched some episodes of _Star Trek_ at Hermione's house, and had been obsessed with ever since. Aldon had been ignoring the references he had been making all week. "Sedition charges, Archie! Do you really think the Ministry won't pick up on the use of _bridge_ as a _military command centre_ for a ship?"

Archie deflated immediately, though Aldon was pleased to see that he didn't pout. Pouting was not a good look for a revolutionary leader. "Okay. I guess that rules out _The Bridge Report_, too."

"But not _Bridge_." Derrick smiled, thinking it over. "I like _Bridge_. It's vague enough that people can take what they want from it. It can be a link between worlds, or a path from the present to the future. And if you want, it _can_ also be a military command centre."

Aldon shot him a sharp look. An odd sentence, that – maybe Derrick was more willing to countenance outright action than the others? He would file that piece of information away for later.

"Bridge," Isran echoed thoughtfully, leaning forward over his mug of tea. "I like it. It also feels hopeful, somehow. New."

"That's just something we're imposing," Hermione said, rolling her eyes, while Archie bobbed hopefully beside her, grey eyes shining. "But I have no better ideas, and Archie obviously likes it. Can anyone think of any reason why this wouldn't be a good idea? I agree with Derrick, it's vague enough that the Ministry can't read much into it."

Aldon threw a look around the room. The Lord Black's face was stormy, but it seemed that he didn't want to get into it in front of everyone, and Aldon guessed that he would be talking to Archie privately later. Lupin's face was politely engaged. Sean, Saoirse and Toby were exchanging another look, and Aldon picked up a few nods in that circle – he would have to talk to Cedric about Saoirse, if he could track him down, and he would need to find other ways of pinning down the other two. Derrick and Isran were both smiling, but they weren't entirely friendly smiles. John and Francesca were exchanging yet another look, and Francesca shook her head slightly, but neither of them said anything. He caught Percy's eye – Percy shrugged slightly, and Aldon nodded in reply. He didn't have anything to add, either.

"I think that's settled, then," Hermione said, nodding slowly as she thought it through. "I'll talk to the British International Association about funding. We'll go from there."

That night, Aldon stopped off at a Muggle stationary store and picked up a set of spiral-bound notebooks, a few pens and some ink. The selection of notebooks and pens was far wider than he had expected – it seemed like notebooks came in all colours, many of which had inspirational slogans on them: _Do All Things with Love, Dream Big, Only in the Darkness Can You See the Stars. _He ignored all of those, instead choosing plain black, and then spent far too long hovering over the pens. He couldn't tell the difference between many of them: rollerballs, gel pens, he didn't even know. They all wrote very easily, and he knew that this was what Archie and his friends tended to use, but none of them would ever feel right to him. Instead, he went to the back of the store, eventually finding the fountain pens, where the tips looked much more like a quill tip than any of the others, and he went with those, even if they were far pricier than any of the alternatives.

Back in Chris' penthouse, he curled up on the bed in the guest bedroom (_his_ bedroom now, he supposed – his trunk was at the end of the bed, with his clothing folded neatly inside it, but otherwise the room showed no other signs that he had moved in), and started making notes. _Archie Black: too excitable but engaging and a good figurehead. Hermione Granger: sharp and judgemental, effective at convincing Archie to make certain decisions. Saiorse Riordan: Ask Cedric about her. Likely has some authority in a group of traditional Irish casters. Sean Docherty: short-tempered. Be cautious with him. Connected with undocumented witches and wizards? Derrick Holden: inclined to active violence? Working in Diagon Alley. Tobias MacLean: corner him and demand to see his arms. Hiding something. Isran Ali: Working at the New York Ghost. _And so on, and so forth.

At the end, he paused, then he reached for his ritual knife. He had never cast a blood-ward before, but it would be best for something like this. His notebook needed to be sealed and warded from everyone but him, but he needed it to be easily accessible by him. With a blood-ward, he would be able to access it only with his magical signature, and the ward would fall only on his death.

Then, after that, he reached for a sheet of parchment and began drafting a letter to Cedric Diggory.

XXX

John was back, and that made things easier. Things were always easier for Francesca when John was around – as much as he didn't like doing it, he would talk for her, and even if he sometimes liked to torment her, she always felt safe when John was around. She had let him know, mind-to-mind, about everything that had happened while he was away, far faster than it would have taken anyone else to catch him up, starting with Neal and his new castle.

Francesca loved Queenscove. It was a perfect storybook castle, and she loved whiling away her afternoons there over a romance novel or two (or three, or more). Neal's new library was stuffed full of romantic stories of knights, their ladies and chivalry. She could perfectly imagine herself in a castle like this somewhere, with walls big and strong enough to make her feel safe and secure, from which she could keep out the world. In her romantic fantasies, there would be knights who would come to seek her hand, but she would stand on the battlements and chuck lightning at them until they all went away. Until one day, a knight came who was strong enough, smart enough, honourable and persistent and chivalrous enough that she would perhaps consider him, and then maybe she would lower the drawbridge, raise the portcullises, invite him in and serve him tea with her grandmother's good tea ceremony set.

Real men didn't exist like that, of course, but it was nice to dream.

Her mindscape was a castle too, albeit a much smaller one, perfectly up to date with all the most modern technologies. They were in her most comfortable solar, a setup of virtual tea on the coffee table in front of them just because she liked it, lounging on a puffy, completely anachronistic sofa across from the biggest home theatre system she could imagine. John's avatar was rolling around on the floor laughing – she had moved on from a virtual tour of Neal's castle to Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, who always seemed to track her down wherever she was so that he could…

_Do math around you._ John laughed, his avatar's eyes gleaming in amusement just as Francesca was sure his real eyes would be doing. _He just does math around you. Why is that?_

_He wanted to help with the ACD. _Francesca shrugged, but she was smiling nonetheless. _I was testing him. See?_

She waved a hand, throwing up her memories of the day that she had given him a test then taken him to the university bookstore. She focused on the furrow that had formed between Aldon's eyes through half the test, the way he bit his lower lip just a little, that expression of sheer stubbornness that had shown up about forty minutes in and which hadn't disappeared until she had forcibly taken the test from him. John broke out in new gales of virtual laughter.

_You gave him a math test?! _He choked out, laughing so hard he was snorting. Giggle-snorting, Francesca called it. _And then you basically called him an idiot when you took the test away from him. That's awesome. You're awesome._

_He did alright though. _Francesca shrugged again, with another smile. _He got through most of it up to single-variable calculus! I treated him to ramen afterwards because I felt bad for him. He looked a little shell-shocked. But now, he comes around with the textbooks, almost every day._

_Is that bothering you?_ John stopped laughing, panting instead, and as amused as his facial expression was even in avatar form, his thoughts were sharp. _I can go kick his ass, if you want. Did you really need five textbooks?_

Francesca shook her head. _Mostly he just sits there and works, asks me questions occasionally. And the books aren't all necessary, I don't think – I just gave them to him to see what he would do. If he's serious about helping, I don't want to deal with someone who is weird about No-Majs or No-Maj technology._

John raised an eyebrow with a knowing and sympathetic grin. Francesca could always rely on John knowing more than she said. _Archie's enthusiasm getting to you?_

She rolled her eyes and threw up another memory – an afternoon where Hermione had been busy, so Archie had followed her to her favourite coffee shop where she was planning on working over a mocha, then asked her so many questions that she had simply turned the laptop around and put on a game for him. He had been utterly insufferable about it ever since. _I made a mistake_, Francesca admitted with a grimace. _Now he bothers me to make a computer work at Grimmauld Place. I don't want a weird technology fetishist like Archie, but I also don't want to deal with someone who can't respect No-Maj technology just because it's No-Maj, like some people at school._

_Good point. _John nodded. _But can I have a seat at the table the next time you decide to give Aldon Blake a math test? I want to watch his thoughts when he does it – he still sounds like a badly tuned radio, even with the books I lent him before I left._

There was the sound of a voice clearing, breaking through the room, and John grimaced. _Speak of the devil. He's standing in the doorway. Out, quick._

Francesca nodded hurriedly, and John was gone, out of her mindscape before the second had even elapsed. He would always be better at a quick exit from the mindscape than she would be, a decade of experience in the mind arts keeping him both more aware of their surroundings and better at _moving_ in the mindscape. She struggled upwards, mentally locking her castle as she exited her mindscape, but it took her a second to return to the reality where Aldon Blake was hovering in her doorway, his eagle eyes thoughtful as they roved between her and John where they sat on her bed, staring deeply into each other's eyes.

She flushed a little and looked down. She knew what it looked like, but it wasn't like that. It really, really wasn't.

"Aldon!" John said, faux-casual, swinging his legs over the side of her bed. He was a far worse actor than Archie. "Hey, man! I haven't talked to you since I got back, how's it going?"

John shot her a sudden, quick glance, a wicked idea shining in his eyes. _Hey, do you think talking about sex will awkward him out enough to forget this? I'll totally talk about sex. Gerry is awesome in bed._

Francesca resisted the urge to smack him. John was such an idiot sometimes. He probably just wanted to see how uncomfortable he could make Aldon. _I don't think Aldon Blake forgets anything, but feel free to try anyway._

"Aldon," she greeted him instead, a little stiff. "How can we help you?"

The older boy paused, looking between the two of them again, but evidently decided that discretion was the better part of valour and moved on. His mouth firmed. "I am glad to have caught the both of you."

"And I'm glad you're not back in robes," John said, eyeing Aldon appreciatively and making no attempt to hide it. "If I weren't seeing someone and if Gerry wasn't as good in bed as he is—ow!"

Francesca had actually leaned over and hit him on the shoulder then. As if making Aldon feel awkward would do anything but fix their weirdness in his brain for later.

_But his thoughts right now are awesome_, John fired back at her. _He's so embarrassed and hiding it! I'll show you later._

_How could I resist that? _Francesca suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. She turned back to Aldon instead, fighting to remember the last thing he had said and realizing she had lost the train of conversation. Ugh, John was so much better at following multiple conversation threads than her. "Um, I'm sorry. You were saying…?"

Aldon paused, open-mouthed for an instant, then he cleared his throat again. "I was hoping to speak with you. With both of you, since John is back."

That much was obvious by the fact that he was hovering in her doorway, but Francesca did him the courtesy of not pointing out that he _was_ speaking to them. Instead, she simply waited, hoping he would get to the point. He didn't have textbooks under his arm, so it had to be something else.

"Er," he tried again. "Perhaps we might adjourn to for the sitting room? Or the kitchen?"

John snorted, and Francesca knew without him saying anything that he was laughing at Aldon's use of language. _Adjourn, _really.

"Why?" she asked, her voice blunt.

"I thought it might be more comfortable." Aldon shifted on his feet, slightly, looking away. There was a slight blush on his face. Aldon got so flustered about the most minor of things, really. Their entire time at ramen, he had apologized incessantly every time he had knocked her knees with his, and his expression when she called for the bill, swiped it from under his nose, and paid for it with her father's credit card had been utterly priceless. Some mix of shame, embarrassment, and something else, and he couldn't even use his chopsticks correctly.

"Don't want to enter the monster's lair?" John smirked lazily, falling back on Francesca's bed and propping himself up on his elbows. "I understand. Monster eats men for breakfast. I'm only safe because I'm gay."

"I understood _you_ to be the true terror, John, rather than Francesca," Aldon snapped in reply, orange-yellow eyes flashing. "Something about how you take your older brotherly duties very seriously?"

John waved a hand in the air, completely uncaring. "Guilty as charged. But a knight needs to slay a dragon to win a princess, right? I'm the dragon, see, thought you'd have worked that out by now. Knights, absolutely delicious, you know."

Francesca _did_ roll her eyes then, shoving at John's bulk with her legs, but he didn't budge an inch. Not a surprise, considering he had eighty pounds on her, and it wasn't like shoving him worked any other time. "Um, in any case," she said, pulling the conversation back to where it started before John could engage in more pointed banter that she wouldn't be able to understand without Aldon's thoughts. "What is it, Aldon? You can come in, if you like."

"Er—" he said, somehow unbalanced, while John laughed. Aldon glared at John for a moment, then he took two steps into Francesca's room: one in, and one to his right, where he leaned against the wall in an even worse position of repose than John had managed. They were both terrible actors. "Very well, then. I wanted to speak to you about the ACD. Both of you, since you, John, have the only working prototype."

John shot her a look, and as light-hearted as John always made himself out to be, he was more intelligent than he let on. _He wants to bring us to Blake & Associates. He wants to pitch the ACD for funding and bring in more of his co-workers for help on research and development._

_What?! _Francesca's eyes widened, and her breath quickened in panic. _But the ACD – it's mine. Mine! I don't want other people on it I don't like other people other people are scary and they'll be mean about it and I don't want to deal with that and no! I don't want it! Make him go away!_

_Hey_. He sat up, grabbing her wrist, his breathing slow and steady as he stared at her. She locked her breathing with his automatically – stupid Healer tricks. Stupid Healer tricks that had been used a few too many times on her. This was completely grounds for a panic attack. _Calm down, Chess. Let's hear him out. Not everyone is like people at school, you said he hasn't made fun of you—_

_Yet. He hasn't done anything yet, that doesn't mean he's not going to. _Francesca's mental voice was a grumble.

_Yeah, and you threw calculus and physics at the poor guy._ John smiled very slightly._ That would be enough to make literally anyone else run away. You said yourself that he's been coming by every day, he's interested, and he hasn't done anything. Don't you think that deserves a chance, at least? _

She grumbled at him again mentally, something without words, just annoyance and feeling. John coughed, letting go of her wrist and turning back to Aldon with the clear and obvious intent to pretend like nothing weird had happened at all. Which, for anyone who knew them at all, nothing weird _had_ happened. This was an everyday occurrence in the Holmes Wing.

"You were saying?" John asked pleasantly.

Aldon's eyes lingered on the two of them again, but Francesca set her chin stubbornly. John was going to brazen this out, so she would hide behind him and let him do it. She didn't want to explain her relationship with John to Aldon. She barely knew him! A couple weeks or so of math and tea over math didn't make them friends, only _friendly_.

"As I was saying," Aldon continued slowly, apparently deciding to let it go, but Francesca doubted he would forget. He was probably filing it away in his memories for later consideration. "I would like to bring the both of you to Blake & Associates to show the ACD. It's a remarkable achievement, and while you've made enormous strides on it alone, I think you've reached the point where other collaborators are necessary. Blake & Associates has significant resources, both financial and in terms of expertise – we have a resident Charms Master, Defense Master, Alchemy Master, and so on."

"And what are you?" John grinned, a bit predatory. "Master of none?"

Aldon glared at him. "Currently, I'm the Runes expert," he replied stiffly. "I have a NEWT in the subject. As well as in Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Ward Construction and Curse-breaking, as it happens."

"What the fuck is a NEWT?" John snorted, and even Francesca hid a laugh. "It sounds like a joke."

Aldon paused again, apparently not sure what to say, then, evidently, he decided to ignore it. "That is not important, but my point is – I think progress can be made faster with more funding, with a team of people behind it. I believe in the ACD, Francesca. It has the potential to completely change spellcasting as we know it. I reviewed the paper you gave me – I agree that it can be adapted to just about any spell. I am, as you know, less familiar on the Muggle technology front, but if successful, I think you could conceivably put runic efficiency and complex spell-work, such as warding or looped Amplification charms, into the hands of your average witch or wizard. The possibilities are intriguing, and I'd like to see further investment into the idea." He smiled suddenly, his amber eyes locked on Francesca alone. "Or, truthfully: I would just like to make working on the ACD part of my day job."

"Hey, dragon in the room," John barked, rolling his eyes, before he turned to Francesca. _So? What do you think? _

Francesca shot him an unimpressed look. _I think he has a silver tongue. I don't want to involve a ton of people – I don't want to deal with people. I don't want to make a pitch, I don't want to stand in front of a crowd of people who are going to judge me and laugh at me and I don't even know what while I stumble through a speech, I don't want to deal with questions. I don't want it, John, make him go away._

"Excuse us for a moment," John said, looking over at Aldon and waving his hand in a motion for him to leave the room. "We have to talk about this."

"We, um, really don't," Francesca tried to interrupt, frowning. It did not sound like John planned on making Aldon go away, or with backing her up on her refusal, so maybe it would be best if she cut this train off herself. It was bad enough that she had been talked into showing Aldon her ACD, and she couldn't deny that it was fun throwing calculus and physics at him, but enough was enough. Maybe one person, she could think about bringing in, but a whole _team? _A venture funding firm? A partnership? "I'm sorry, Aldon, it's just – I'm not—"

"Ignore her," John said loudly, talking over her and making shooing motions with his hands. "She doesn't know what she's talking about right now. Out, out, and shut the door behind you."

Aldon obeyed immediately, smartly shutting the door behind him, and he was barely out of the room before Francesca was glaring daggers at John. Between the two of them, glaring daggers actually meant something – she dove through his mists, her avatar hitting his like a bullet in the clouds over his mindscape, a nearly perfect model of New York City. _What was that about, John? I said no! No no no no no no no! I don't want to deal with strangers, I don't want to talk in front of people, I don't want to deal with it! I just want to be left alone to work on it, I just want to invent things and I don't want to deal with investors and garbage like that, I don't want it! Why would you say that to him?! _

John caught her, not that she could literally be injured in his mindscape and set her down on the rooftop of his mental representation of the Rockefeller Center. _Chess, you also want your ACD to take over the world – you can't hide that from me! You're obsessed with it, with making it something that can and will bring spellcasting into the modern era! I'm not stupid, Chess, I know you've been stuck for nearly a year – your development was insane over the first two years, but since the prototype, all your improvements have been on minor things like weight and battery life. If you want to achieve your dreams, you have to take some risks. Come on, think about it – Blake & Associates has both the money and the expertise, they can help you make the ACD as big as you've always dreamed it could be._

_I can get past this block, John,_ Francesca spat at him, shoving him. He stumbled, because they were in a mindscape and not in real life, and things like weight didn't mean anything. _Are you saying I'm not smart enough? I'm smart, John, I made it this far!_

_You made it this far largely because of luck, monster. _John pushed her back, because in the mindscape, she wouldn't topple over or fall off the building, and even if she did, this was John's mindscape. She would flip, rolling over like a cat, and land on her feet on the streets of Manhattan below. His mental voice was hard, unrelenting in a way it never would have been in front of other people. _You got lucky finding the papers for the proto-runes and the magical blocking potion. Your main area of expertise is No-Maj materials and technology; it's not runes, not magical theory, not Potions, not Charms or Transfigurations or whatever else might come up that you might need. You can't learn everything – the ACD needs people who have expertise in those areas, and funding would let those people work on it full time. Don't you want to see the ACD take over the world as soon as possible? Don't you want to have one of your very own? Because you don't have one, and you're not going to have one unless you open up and let people help you. _

Francesca stumbled back, his thoughts a slap a thousand times harder than the little mental shove that he had given her. She did want an ACD, her own ACD, a better one that let her access the world of spells that John, that Archie and Hermione took for granted. She wanted to have that flexibility too, instead of having a set of pre-planned paper spells that she had to carry in a stack around with her, only six or seven because any more than that got confusing to keep track of. She had off the cuff spells, here and there, simple runes that she had memorized like a heat-spell or her lightning spell, but the things that Archie and everyone else used all the time, things like _Summoning Charms_, were beyond her. The ACD of her dreams would have a hundred spells programmed in it, it would let her cast just like everyone else, but faster, more efficiently, and it would be _pink_, and she wouldn't be weird. _I – you – how can you say that? _

Her avatar was crying, and she was pretty sure her real body was crying too. She threw a bunch of memories at him – memories of people laughing at her and her spellcasting, people pretending to befriend her over those stupid CD player cases, people throwing hexes at her because she was different, her memories playing themselves out in the clouds around them. A hundred different painful memories, many of the voices ringing out around them.

Wandless. No-Maj. Waste of space. Ugly, because the easiest insult for a girl was to call her ugly. Stupid. Retarded. Defective. There was a jinx that she couldn't defend against because she couldn't find her shield spell fast enough, followed by laughter – another memory, or maybe a half dozen of them, of trip jinxes that she hadn't seen. A dozen times where Neal had quietly patched her up, undoing whatever curse she had been caught up in, promising to say nothing to John about it so that John wouldn't go on a useless revenge hunt, not that she knew where the curse had come from half the time anyway. Her mental map of AIM, with all the safe places highlighted where she could go if she needed a place to hide, where John or one of their other friends could likely be found. The memory of the month or so where people were surprisingly nice to her, where that bunch of girls had invited her shopping in town, then had taken her wallet and abandoned her there when she said she couldn't make CD cases for them all. She had found a quiet street, had one of her worst panic attacks in years, and John had had to track her down and take her home. And get her wallet back for her.

They were in his mindscape, so John dismissed her memories away with barely any effort, throwing up a hundred of his own memories to paint the grey clouds. Memories of her inventions, memories of the Tournament, memories of every time he or Daine or Neal or Kel or anyone else had stepped in to help her, no questions asked, no return favours owed. People were good to her, even at school – not everyone was like her bullies.

God, she hated that John was so good at the mind arts.

_Fuck those other people, Chess. _He waved his hand again, and the memories disappeared._ They're small-minded and shitty, and you shouldn't let the garbage they say about you define you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, this is your best chance to make your dreams for the ACD come true. Go with it, don't let shitty people hold you back. That's how they win, you know._

She sniffled, her avatar wiping her eyes, though she didn't have the sort of control over her real body from her mindscape that she could do the same to her real body. Her makeup would be a mess, after this. _Even if I wanted to, I couldn't, John. People don't like me. I'm not likeable, I'm not good at talking. Talking is stupid. It's all doomed to failure anyway, so I mean… it's easier if I just do it all myself._

_I can name a dozen guys at school who would swear up and down that you're very likeable. _John sighed, rubbing one hand over his forehead. _Come on, monster, don't let your ridiculous trust issues and anxiety hold you back from this. I'll be behind you, I'm always behind you. I'll send any contracts to Tina and Will for their review, and we'll clean it up, we'll make it air-tight to protect you. Please, take a risk. Please. For me? _

Francesca snort-giggled through tears. _All those guys at school are idiots, John. They just like the person they think I am, not me. I don't know who the person they think they like is, but it isn't me. I'm not that kind, or that sweet, or whatever._

John shrugged. _I think you'd be surprised on that, but I agree, they're all awful. Even the ones I like are awful. Whoever you date is your choice, Chess, I'm just there to torment all of them. Come on, take this chance. It's not even just Aldon, it's his mom's company, and as far as I can tell, they're completely legit. I'll be behind you on the pitch, all the way, and from his thoughts, Aldon is there too. He means it, when he says he loves the ACD and that he wants to help, and while he has the usual thoughts that most guys who are into girls have when he looks at you, he's not sketchy about it. _

Francesca gave a watery smile at _the usual thoughts_. She knew what that meant – people thought she was pretty, some people wanted more with her, but John generally didn't care unless they were _sketchy_ _about it_, the criteria for which he had never satisfactorily explained to her. She sniffed. _Okay. Okay. I guess I can try. Go kick him out of the hallway where he's probably hovering, I need to go and fix my makeup and I'd rather he not see my streaky gross crying face._

_I think your streaky gross crying face would have him on his knees in front of you asking how he can make it all better,_ John thought, his mental voice dry. _Or he would run screaming for the hills, which would honestly be equally hilarious. I'll go rustle him out and make him wait in the formal sitting room downstairs. Go fix your makeup, little sis. I love you. _

_Love you too, you big soft-hearted idiot. _Francesca shook her head and jumped backwards off the edge of the Rockefeller Center, doing that little mental twist to disappear from John's mindscape. John was still there, sitting on her bed, when she came to, and he shot her a quick, happy, grin before diving on her for a hug – big and warm and very John. She wiped her face on his shoulder, leaving foundation and eyeshadow and mascara on his t-shirt.

"I'm proud of you, little monster," he muttered in her ear. "I'll go take care of the devil on your doorstep. Take whatever time you need to fix your face."

It only took her fifteen minutes to redo her makeup, but it took them nearly fifteen hours to prepare her pitch. They holed up in one of the public library's study rooms, and since it was still summer, it seemed like no one minded. As he promised, John was beside her nearly the entire time, making helpful suggestions on how to word things best for mages to understand and sending Aldon to get innumerable cups of fancy tea from the local coffee shop.

"It was a _London Fog_ that she wanted," John would snap at the older boy, a hint of laughter in his brown eyes. "You've just brought back_ regular tea with milk!_ Get it right, man."

Francesca would just hand Aldon more of her British pounds and wordlessly turn back to her laptop, where she was drafting her pitch, the table littered with empty paper cups that had once held tea. Then coffee, as the hours grew later, until the library kicked them out and they went to work in a pub instead. It was a good thing that Francesca had proofread so many of Dad's grant proposals – a pitch was much the same.

She spent a page working through the background theory of her device, including her hypothesis on the nature of wandlore and how it fit into magical frequency, including a diagram. She then added in several pages on the physics principles behind the ACD, including an introduction to electromagnetic frequency and resonance, including the math, for which the textbooks she had made Aldon buy proved to be exceptionally handy. She allowed Aldon to proofread those sections since he now understood it better than John did, which he did with more pleasure than was really warranted. She had finished the conceptual diagrams of the ACD and the _next steps _pages outlining her most pressing problems: problems in magical theory to expand the ACD's use beyond just John, problems breaking down the proto-runic theory for more spells, problems integrating a microcontroller. The only thing left of the actual pitch document was Aldon's pages, since he offered to write the summary of the proto-runes article.

And therein lay the issue. Aldon had written it out, including a second example of the proto-runes, in beautiful, flowing script over four sheets of paper.

Francesca stared at his sheets for a moment, uncomprehending. She supposed it was enough that he had written it with a pen on four sheets of A4 instead of a quill and a scroll of parchment, but her tired brain just wasn't computing it. She had slept only four hours the night before, they had all crashed near three in the morning. She and John had offered to share her bed so that Aldon could have John's bed, but Aldon had looked completely horrified and refused, taking the couch in the formal sitting room at Grimmauld Place instead.

Aldon's script was a hundred times more beautiful than her cursive, but she couldn't make heads or tails of it in her current state. She felt ready to cry, looking over his beautiful pages, even thinking about deciphering them to put into her pitch. "Um," she said, staring at his papers. "These, um, flourishes – is it an f, or an s?"

"An s," Aldon said, frowning a little. "This is how all nobles are trained to write."

She handed his handwritten explanation to John, rubbing her eyes. "I'm sorry, but – I can't—"

"Aldon can type it out, and I'll edit it," John said quickly, shoving the sheets back at the older boy. "You still need to get clothes for the presentation tomorrow, you said. Go on, go shopping. I'll keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't fry your computer."

"Excuse me?" Aldon blinked, then he looked down at the laptop as John slid it in front of him, a look of apprehension coming across his sharp face. "Er – I'm sure that either of you would be much better suited—"

"Just type it out, man. The machine isn't going to bite you. You're the only one here who can read your handwriting anyway." John nodded at the laptop. Francesca thought about it for a minute, but John knew his way around a word processor. And she did need clothes appropriate for a professional pitch. Something clean and crisp, in black. And sky-high heels with pointed toes, and more makeup than she had brought with her to Britain. And maybe she could go have a bit of a panic while she went about it – her third in two days, all thankfully in the safety of her mindscape.

"Yes, Aldon, please," she said, standing up and reaching for her purse. She would shop, and get something for John to wear, too. "Type it out. So – so it fits with the rest of the pitch. We'll put it, um, before the diagrams. John, would you…"

"Wouldn't have offered if I wasn't going to," John said, flashing her an encouraging smile. He pulled his chair beside Aldon's. "Come on, man. Based on your clothes, we've gotten you into the 1920s, now let's bring you into the 1990s. Computer. Type."

Aldon stared down at the laptop keys, a hint of nervousness in his wildflower honey eyes. He reached out with a single finger and hit a key – a P. He was going to be a nightmare to watch typing, Francesca realized, watching the way he held his hands, the way he stared at the keyboard. He was going to pick at every letter through his entire four-page, handwritten summary, and it was going to be _painful_ to watch.

_I'll bring you back a mocha_, she shot at John, who only grinned.

_Bring back three. He can have one if he can figure out typing with two fingers, otherwise we'll split the third!_

When she came back, four hours later, Aldon looked like he had a headache, John was laughing as he proofread the entire document, and Francesca had three mochas in hand. Aldon had, in fact, earned his as he had started typing with two fingers on each hand and hit the not at all impressive ten words per minute.

The next morning, John hit the print-shop to print and bind ten copies of her pitch while Francesca spent her morning hours panicking and getting ready. A major presentation? That called for make-up, and lots of it, a little different than her usual. First, she went with heavy dark eyeliner, then she hesitated, and wiped it all off. Aldon was conservative – maybe this was a little too much. She should have gone with magic, maybe, like most of the people at school, but she didn't know any runic makeup spells. No-Maj makeup would have to be good enough, but she went with more neutral colours, this time.

Her new suit was tailored perfectly with a few sizing charms, and her new heels would hurt, but she needed the height. Three-and-a-half inches, far higher than her normal – but she didn't want to be staring up at people. She would just have to manage with it.

She glanced at the time – she didn't have enough of it left. John was probably back already, so she couldn't do her hair properly. She sighed, shaky, then put it in a simple ponytail and picked out her jewellery: a golden pendant, flat and round with ruby-studded starburst, given to her by her grandmother, tiny gold and ruby earrings with a matching ring on her right hand from her father.

The girl that stared back at her in the mirror didn't _look_ like a mess of nerves. She looked confident, she looked like she knew what she was talking about, like she knew her own worth and the worth of her invention. She looked ready for a major business presentation. She didn't look like Francesca in the least, but that was a good thing – she didn't want to look like herself.

She wanted to look _more_. Because when she looked like more, when the person in the mirror looked confident and beautiful, it was easier to make herself believe that she could be that person, too. She reached over to her bed, which had three different handbags on it, and took her time picking out the one that would make the statement she needed. The Coach bag, in brown, she decided eventually. All her handbags were her mother's castoffs, but if there was anyone Francesca wanted to channel today, it was her mother, Grace Cheung, COO in Silicon Valley, tiger mother and terror of many boardrooms.

She had even called home, early that morning, to tell her parents about the pitch. Predictably, her father was all over her, telling her how proud he was and how he believed in her, while her mother had a completely different kind of support to give.

"Did you get the suit? The shoes? And your pitch is ready?" Even over the phone, her mother sounded sharp, aggressive.

Francesca made noises of assent to each of her questions.

"Then why are you calling me? Don't call me until you have a deal, this call is expensive," her mother said, then she promptly hung up the phone.

Her mother didn't waste time on things like _nerves, _or _lack of confidence, _or whatever it was that was bothering Francesca that day, and she didn't have time to coddle Francesca through her _fits of emotion, _as she called them. Her mother simply expected Francesca to go out and do whatever needed to be done, and failure was not an option. Failure was never an option, because Grace Cheung and Jackson Lam did not raise a failure.

Francesca hoped that her mom's no-nonsense bravery came with her designer handbag, her suit, and her shoes, and walked out the door.

John and Aldon were waiting by the front door, John a neatly pressed, collared shirt, without a tie, and black slacks and Aldon in much the same, though Aldon seemed to have developed an attachment to waistcoats and had one of those on, too. They made for a good picture, Francesca thought, a little hysterical. John, with mousy brown hair, shorn close to his head, tall, broad-shouldered and bulky; Aldon, dark hair swept up and out of his face, slender and elegant. John had a cardboard box under one arm, and a quick peek inside showed that her pitch was there, under a plain white cover that read simply, _The Assistive Casting Device: A Proposal for Partnership_.

"Let's go," she said, and her voice was calm and blunt, at complete odds with her heart, which was hammering wildly. John shot her a look, wordlessly checking in on her, but she shook her head, blinking. "Come on. The commute shouldn't be more than forty minutes, but let's get there a half-hour early, at _least_."

They walked to Caledonian Road Station in absolute silence, riding the Piccadilly line into the City. Aldon took the lead from there, marching them up endless staircases, then a short, five-minute walk above ground to his office tower. Twenty-fourth floor, and they were a full forty minutes early, and Francesca's feet were killing her.

She took a moment to be grateful for black tights, because the backs of her ankles were bleeding. John or Archie could take care of that later, but for now, the pain was good. The pain made her sharp, it made her focus on something that wasn't the ache in her stomach that came from doing things that were absolutely, mind-bogglingly terrifying. Aldon disappeared into his office, presumably to prepare a boardroom, while John handed her a copy of her pitch. She glanced over it, barely seeing it, words jumping out here and there at her as she flipped through the pages. It looked good, it looked clean and professional, as bold and strong as Francesca hoped she looked, nerves aside.

All too soon, Aldon waved them in, and Francesca set her chin stubbornly as she stood up, John's reassuring bulk behind her. She had decided to do this, so she would, and she would channel her mother and brazen her way through and if she got funding, they would celebrate, and if she didn't, she could tell John she tried.

She stepped into the boardroom, her eyes sweeping over Aldon, the brunette woman that she recognized as his mother, and several people she didn't know. There were introductions, but she didn't hear them – Aldon took care of those, she only nodded numbly when he announced who she was to the room. John took care of passing out her pitch to everyone, and then, _then_ it was time.

She stood up, and the heels helped. The way they clicked against the floor helped. The pain in her feet and ankles helped. The power suit helped, her makeup helped. She wasn't herself anymore – she wasn't Francesca Lam, but something more. She could – she would – panic later, but that was a later problem. Now, it was time to work.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she said, and her voice was calm, mild. "As Aldon has so kindly said, my name is Francesca Lam, and I am here to propose a partnership with your firm on my invention. I call it the Assistive Casting Device – it is a new method of channelling magic that incorporates No-Maj technological principles, which I hope will bring runic efficiency and complex, multi-layered spellcasting into the hands of your average mage."

Aldon had said that the wards at Blake & Associates would hold the Trace, so Francesca pulled out her first paper illusion charm. They were arranged in order, so she didn't have to think too much about the spells behind her. They were set up to go along with her presentation, flashing her diagrams in full colour, while she explained her theory behind about magical frequencies, electromagnetic frequencies, and resonance. Aldon took over briefly, to explain the proto-runes paper, but left it to Francesca to go through the rest.

They put in their formal demonstration, also their proof of concept, in the middle of the presentation – Francesca simply held up another paper spell, launching a fire spell at John, which he blocked with barely an effort. Aldon threw a few attack spells at John too, but the ACD was fresh on batteries, so it was fine. The plan was for Aldon to throw attack spells at random points at John for the rest of the presentation, both to highlight the ACD's speed and efficiency and to keep things interesting, while Francesca finished going through the next steps for her device.

"Everything is, of course, in my proposal. Are there any questions?" Her voice was calm even if her thoughts were rattling around in her head. The _planned_ part of her presentation was done – now it was _discussion_, now was when these powerful, well-dressed strangers would start laughing at her, when they would start attacking her. She made eye contact with John, sitting across the table from her.

_Breathe, monster,_ he said, as he batted away a _Stupefy_ spell that Aldon had just thrown at him. _You're almost there, and then we'll go out to that fancy boba place you like. Or ice cream. Whatever you want._

"I'd like to be able to see the ACD closer," one of the people around the boardroom table, a thin man with greying brown hair and a pointed nose, said. Francesca glanced at John again, tilting her head, and he leaned over, rolling his sleeve up easily for the mage's scrutiny. The mage looked it over, considering, then nodded. "Very interesting. I'm intrigued, and the proof of concept is there. Aldon, obviously you've put in a lot of thought in this – what do you think?"

"I strongly support the ACD," Aldon replied instantly, flicking his wand one more time at John, who deflected the spell with only a thought. Francesca didn't even know what it was, that time, but probably another minor jinx. "There is a working proof of concept, and while I do not have a strong grasp of the Muggle science, I have reviewed the proto-runes article, and Master Blayways does set up the basics of a proto-runic alphabet for spells. It needs work, but I do think it can be used and adapted to any spell."

Aldon's mother, the eponymous Blake of the firm, was studying the next steps page instead. Her expression was thoughtful, and she was chewing on her lip, the way Aldon did sometimes when he was thinking. "The issue is the magical theory. I don't think that research linking an individual's magic to Muggle science _exists_ – since magical children are generally withdrawn from Muggle society very young, I don't believe anyone has ever done research along these lines. In fact, I can only name perhaps a handful of people who have the Muggle background in science to even approach this – even the Muggle Studies teachers at most of the schools in America only know the culture, nothing like this. We would need to effectively do all the base research ourselves. Ideally, I'd hire a Master in Magical Theory, but there are none I would trust in Britain, and I doubt I can persuade anyone to come here, in the current environment—"

"I could do it," Aldon spoke up, and Francesca nearly stopped breathing. Her eyes darted to John, who was smiling in pleased excitement – they were thinking about it. They were _actually _thinking about it! She didn't know yet if that was a good thing, a bad thing, a terrifying thing, or maybe some combination of all three. She looked back at Aldon, who had his right leg propped over his left knee, his voice cool. "I enjoy magical theory. I tested in the top ten percent for the secondary examinations across Europe in the subject. I can look into that as well as the runes."

"It's still quite a lot of work," Blake said slowly, looking through the proposal again. "We normally take on smaller projects, less risk, but on the other hand …" Her eyes went up, looked at the ACD sitting innocently on John's wrist. "It works. It works, and it's a _huge_ development for spell-casting."

"Imagine – forget shield charms, even _Fortis_, as useful as it is. People could be carrying around portable _wards_. Five-to-seven woven protection charms, launching as quickly as a _Protego_ or _Fortis_." Aldon was smiling slightly, an almost dreamy look coming into his golden eyes. His eyes were really very nice. "Or, combining it with a wand – a portable, fast, amplification loop. Or we could expand it to a full casting method – hundreds of spells, at your fingertips, with runic efficiency and speed built in. It changes the world."

"It changes something, but this sort of research is costly. Then again, the potential profits are _staggering_ – I would not be shocked if, fifty years from now, these ACDs will be more common than wands. And we would be at the forefront." Blake looked up from the booklet, taking a deep, shaky, breath, coming to a decision. "Aldon, call our solicitors – we need a contract to formalize the partnership and determine an appropriate cut of the profits. Miss Lam, I know you're back to America within the week, so things will need to move quickly. We'll set up a communication orb between you and someone in our office, then we should be able to negotiate and start work remotely. We're in."

XXX

"Arch, can we talk?"

Archie couldn't actually hear his Dad, not over the music blaring through his headphones as he looked down at the questions that had been sent to him by the newly formed _Bridge_, but he understood the meaning well enough. He smiled, hitting to _stop_ button on his new CD player that Chess had finally managed to make for him, to replace his old one, and pulled his headphones off to hang around his neck. "Yeah, Dad. Of course. What's up?"

Dad took a seat across from him at the kitchen table, eyeing the sheets of paper Archie had in front of him with a hint of caution, of suspicion. "Just – have you really thought through what you're doing? This – this paper, it's incredibly dangerous. We got out of a tight situation before, with the trial, and anything more will be – well, I can't say what would happen with any certainty, but what you're talking about – it will be sedition, Archie. You're pushing to a full rebellion, and it's dangerous. We can do this legally, in the Wizengamot, especially when your friend takes his seat there. There's really – there's no need for you, or your friends, to be taking these kinds of risks, Archie."

He had known this was coming – Dad had been unhappy beside him, through the entire meeting about _Bridge_. He even understood, because it _was_ dangerous, and the trial had been _awful_ for Dad. Dad hadn't said anything about it at the time, because Archie had needed him too badly, but it couldn't have been easy watching as his only son went through a two-and-a-half-week trial where a death sentence was one of the _better_ options. Dad was a man of action; he liked to be the one going out and _fixing_ things with his hands or his magic, and it would have been in his instincts to spirit Archie away somewhere overseas where he couldn't be touched.

The trial had taken a different kind of strength – it had taken a willingness to sit there, under the intense pressure of the crosshairs, and stay steady and unwavering under it knowing the possible consequences. It hadn't been easy for Dad, so of course Dad didn't want to see more of the same.

All Archie could do was to try and be careful. There were a hundred secrecies and protections built into _Bridge _– Archie didn't know everyone who would be involved in it. He was the most well-known of them, and he was most likely to be targeted by the Ministry if it all went south, so he would know as little as possible. His interview was done in writing, so he didn't know who his interviewer would be. He didn't know if they had gotten their own printing press, or where it was kept, though he guessed that it had to be in the No-Maj world. That would have to be enough.

"Dad," he said quietly, raising his pencil from the paper where he had been drafting his responses to the questions. "At the Quidditch World Cup last year, after the attacks. How long were you held for questioning?"

Dad stared at him, taken aback for an instant. "After the attacks? Not long – I helped James with the chaos in the aftermath, but I wasn't formally questioned."

"How long was Harry held for questioning, or Aunt Lily?"

"They weren't," Dad replied, drawing the last word out slowly. "James filed their statements for them, they weren't asked to stay."

"Saiorse's dad was held for three days." Archie looked down at his interview paper, skimming through the questions again. They were quite standard – they wanted his reaction to the trial, his next steps, things like that. That was easy enough, though wording everything perfectly would be tough. He reread his first answer, crossed out half of it, and set it aside to focus on Dad. "Because when things like that happen, nobles go first. Nobles and purebloods always go first. Sean was lucky, because since he and his mum are undocumented, they ran when the pamphlets started coming down and managed to Apparate out before the questions happened. Change of topic – when was the last time St. Mungo's hired a mage trained outside Britain? Or took on, for an internship, someone educated outside Britain?"

Dad thought about it for a minute. "I'm not sure, Arch," he said finally, "but I'm not really on the hiring committee, you know."

"I have a friend, Ranjan Agarwal. He's British, Muggleborn. He was a class monitor for the Healing track at AIM, he just graduated a year ago. He won the first-place prize for the Healing track in his year, his specialty is spell damage. He works out of the Boston Magical Alliance Hospital now, it's very prestigious." Archie paused for a minute, looking up. Hermione had told him the story, and while Archie thought she ought to have been angry, she wasn't – instead, her voice was merely resigned. This was life, for Muggleborns and halfbloods. "But he wanted to come home. He wanted to live and practice in Wizarding Britain, close to his family. He applied to St. Mungo's internship program four summers in a row – he applied for a job as a Junior Healer, even though magical hospitals around the world were knocking down his door with job offers. Brilliant guy. St. Mungo's turned him down."

"Well, I don't what their circumstances were, but maybe they just didn't have an opening—"

"St. Mungo's has openings for twelve internships each year. On average, eight of them aren't filled. The hospital itself is perpetually short-staffed, because even if they aren't covered by the restrictions, they informally follow them because they're worried that the old families, the ones in the SOW Party, will cut their donations if they don't." Archie shrugged, setting his pen down. "Moving on. You remember when I was in the holding cell, right? They put me in with Geoff Baker, this guy that you said has a record the length of my arm?"

Dad scowled, his heavy brows coming together sharply. "I do remember. His record is _longer _than your arm, he has documented anger management issues. Did he hurt you, Archie?"

"God, no." Archie laughed at the very thought, remembering the man in his holding cell, with the blackened eye, sprained or broken ankle, broken nose that he had had to correct by hand. Geoff had yowled through the pain of that, but never thrashed out at Archie. "Geoff was in because his brother-in-law beat his sister and the Aurors and the legal system wouldn't, or maybe they couldn't, do anything about it. He and his sister can't prove their blood-status, and her husband is a legal pureblood. Domestic violence… well, it always ends up being her word against his, even she spoke up about it, and her word is only worth three-quarters of his. They have kids. As a legal halfblood, there's not a lot she can do."

"I'm sorry for her situation, but Archie, there are shelters—"

"But are there?" Archie smiled, a little sad. "Dad, you know that most people in the Alleys can't access St. Mungo's, right? It's too far away, and the resources at the hospital are focused first towards nobles and purebloods, to the people who can pay for it. There's a small clinic in the Lower Alleys, but it's underfunded and understaffed. St. Mungo's funds it so that people like us don't have to be confronted with the wrong kind of people when we go there. Dad, for all the inequalities that we see, for all the ones that affect us, you have to remember that we're protected by our status. We're noble. We're purebloods. We don't know what they deal with every day. I'm happy that you'll be pushing the issue in the Wizengamot, Dad, you and Lord Dumbledore and everyone, but that just isn't enough."

"Archie…" Dad sighed heavily, loud enough to go over the scratch of Archie's pencil. "I don't – I didn't want this for you. I wanted you to go to Hogwarts, to make friends and have a good time being a kid. I don't want you to be fifteen years old, thinking about things like this. You should be having fun, playing pranks, enjoying yourself. Watching the movies that you love so much, reading all your books, listening to your music. Acting."

Archie studied his dad closely. Dad had a worried, sad expression on his face, but Archie knew that he understood. He was saying what had to be said, to try to make Archie change his mind, but he had never had any real hope that Archie would. He just didn't want Archie to be hurt. "Thank you, Dad," he said, and he meant it. "For caring about me. But you know I could never live with myself if I turned my back on the people who supported me and cared for me so much, or on these problems that I never knew existed, if I went back to just having fun. I would hate myself if I did. So, yes, I have to do this. I'll be careful – as careful as I can be, I promise."

He watched his Dad for a moment, and when Dad leaned back, thinking about it, Archie reached for his interview. He went back to writing his answers to the questions, finding his words easier than he did before, though they would still need quite a bit of wordsmithing before he sent it back to his interviewer. Someone who had chosen the pseudonym _Chimaera_. Archie's pseudonym, for his planned column on No-Maj culture, was _Simba_.

Dad sighed again, and Archie heard the shifting of a chair and felt a clasp on his shoulder. "I know, Archie. I'm just worried about you, but despite all that – I'm proud of you. Not for running away to AIM, not for trading places with Harry, but for the person you've become while you were there."

Archie paused, and he put down his pencil and looked up at his Dad. Dad still looked worried, terribly so, even if he was understanding. He reached over and wrapped him in a warm, tight, hug. "Thank you, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, little pup."

XXX

_ANs:_ _French translations this time are pretty straightforward. Neal says "Like always," Aldon says "Thank you," and Neal says "It's nothing." Then, later, "Shut up." This was the chapter where I learned that any time you put Neal and Aldon in a conversation together, magic would happen because they just play off each other so well! I also had an interesting time with Bridge, because I really didn't know what they were going to do until I got them into the room - how do you raise awareness of something when you have little to no political power? Thanks as always to meek_bookworm, tireless beta-reader (she may contest the "tireless" part) and to the occasionally consulted Subject Matter Experts. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!_

_Next Chapter: We were told, just to sit tight / __'Cause somebody will soon arrive / __Help is on the way / __They never came / They never came (Help is on the Way, by Rise Against)_


	8. Chapter 8

Draco stalked down the train, Pansy at his side, looking for the compartment that held his friends. Only Blaise and Millicent, this year – despite continued searching, neither he nor Pansy had managed to find any trace of Harry. All their international connections, between the two of them, completely useless. And, as for Theo, if he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't be anywhere that Draco could find him, not after that show during the trial.

Draco didn't care about the trial itself; he couldn't care less if Archie Black had been convicted or acquitted. He only cared because of its impact on Harry, and Nott had stood up there and spewed out absolute _trash_ about her, repeated from the Daily Prophet! Who would have thought that Theo would be so spineless, so easily swayed? He had _known_ Harry, even if he had known her as _Rigel. _He had to have known that Harry would never have hurt a fly, not without being explicitly provoked, just as he had to have known that she was, if anything, _too_ controlled in her magic. Draco could sooner see _Pansy _losing control of her magic and hurting someone before Rigel did. Their dorm arrangements this year would be interesting, to say the least, but at least Nott hadn't been made prefect.

Those honours had gone to Draco and Pansy, which was why they were only now hurrying down the corridors in search of their other two friends. The corridors seemed to be even more packed than usual, full of people walking up and down the train, peeking discreetly into train compartments as they passed. Draco's head was filled with, if possible, _more_ nervous anticipation than he had expected. Here and there, he caught whispers.

"Do you think _he'll_ be here this year? The Black Heir." A tiny girl, shamefully wearing a green-and-silver tie, was whispering to her friend as they went down the hallway.

"I mean, now that the ruse is exposed, there's no reason for him to be in America anymore, right?" her friend argued, equally quiet. "And it doesn't make any sense for the Black Heir to be schooled abroad. He has to be here somewhere."

Draco scowled. He _hoped_ Archie Black would dare show his face at Hogwarts. Black was such a poor replacement for Rigel that Draco would leap at the chance to tell him so. If the world were a fair one, it would have been _Rigel – _Harry – who was the pureblood Black Heir, not _Archie Black_. Archie Black belonged wallowing with the Muggles that he so loved. He was an embarrassment to the nobility, to purebloods everywhere.

If only they had found her! They could have brought her home, gotten the charges out of the way, gotten an exception to the Hogwarts pureblood-only policy for her, and then she could have been back here with them, sharing their fifth year! He imagined, for a minute, Harry Potter in the girls' Hogwarts uniform, a dark shadow anxiously following him and Pansy on the train, worried about how people would react her now that her blood-status had been revealed. People would whisper about her, they would peer awkwardly at her, but Draco would stare them all down, and Pansy would be there. No one would dare say anything to her or about her, not with the two of them there.

Harry didn't even have her OWLs yet. How could she do _anything_ without her OWLs? And with that, his dream dissipated into smoke, because as much as he wanted it, Rigel wasn't going to be at school with him this year.

Pansy paused at a compartment door, then slid it open to reveal Blaise and Millicent. Draco went in, dropping into the empty seat beside Blaise and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Manners normally dictate a greeting," Blaise said dryly, his dark eyes considering as he looked Draco over. "Bad prefect meeting?"

"The meeting was fine," Pansy replied with a sigh, sitting down with far more decorum beside Millicent, who politely folded the sheet of newspaper she had in hand, putting it aside. "Draco has simply not gotten over the fact that Rigel will not be returning to school, and I suspect the widespread rumour that Arcturus Black would be joining us instead has not improved things."

"Ah." Blaise nodded, understanding as he leaned back casually against the familiar worn red and black seats. "Well, if it helps any, he won't be. He's returning to the American Institute of Magic."

Draco jerked up, his face wrinkling into a frown. "Really? I mean, I'm glad, but why?"

"He's more than halfway through his Healing program there," Millicent replied, reaching for her paper and handing it over. Draco unfolded it: _Bridge, _the title read, but he didn't recognize it. The front page showed a stationary picture of Arcturus Rigel Black, this one surrounded by two others that Draco didn't recognize: _Arcturus Rigel Black with John Jacob Kowalski and Nealan Yuanren Queenscove_, read the tagline. He didn't recognize either of them, but he assumed they had to be more of Black's American friends. Millicent waved her hand for him keep reading. "He released this interview today."

"I don't recognize this paper," Draco said slowly, as he folded it again, turning it below the fold to read the interview itself. The paper didn't feel right. It was lighter than the Daily Prophet would have been, with fewer pages, and it was printed on a thin, easily ripped stock, with an odd greyish tinge instead of yellow. The ink was dark, black, coming off onto his hands, and the font was different, too. "The picture isn't moving?"

"They didn't charm it." Blaise shrugged, uncaring. "Charms are costly, and the paper was free. That doesn't matter – read the interview. It's not in the Daily Prophet, and they're certainly publishing risqué remarks. Correspondents use pseudonyms – chimaera is the interviewer, and if you want my guess, it was done in writing and they printed Black's answers verbatim."

Draco's lip curled up briefly, but he leaned forward, holding the paper between himself and Pansy so they could both read it. The train rattled, a little, by now long outside London, but Draco paid it no mind.

_**AN INTERVIEW WITH ARCTURUS RIGEL BLACK**_

_**Thank you for giving Bridge the exclusive opportunity to interview you. It's been a little more than a month since your conviction for aiding and abetting and conspiracy in blood identity theft. How have you been? **_

_Things have been great, thank you for asking. It's been an adjustment, to living as myself in Wizarding Britain, but otherwise things really have been wonderful. I am very fortunate to have a wide community of friends and family surrounding me, and I am grateful beyond words for their love and support._

_**What did you think of your trial verdict?**_

_Justice is nothing if not just. While I am disappointed not to have struck the blood identity theft laws, I am deeply heartened by Justice's comments throughout her decision. Justice recognized that blood identity theft is not a supportable offence – she stated that, to the extent that it might be responding to any real concerns, it is grossly disproportionate, overbroad, and cannot be justified. She further acknowledged that the harms caused_ _by the law, to Muggleborns and halfbloods, is far greater than any harm to purebloods, and said that allowing the law to stand is fundamentally unjust. _

_It is an irony that I, as a pureblood, could not strike the law because I was too privileged to be subject to it, but I do believe that my sentence reflects that. As Justice herself said, she only deals in life, soul, and magic; to have lost only my Metamorphmagus abilities is a small price to pay for the verdict I received._

_**In your American Standard interview, published May of last year, you said that you intended to keep advocating for the rights of Muggleborns and halfbloods from America, where you are attending school. Has that changed? What are your plans now?**_

_That has not changed. I am returning to the American Institute of Magic for my fifth year, where I am studying for a Healing certification with specialties in Infectious Disease and Muggle Medicine. Bluntly, even had I wanted to change schools, I could not have done so at this late stage – Hogwarts does not have a Healing program to speak of, and nearly all my courses for the past two years have been geared towards Healing: Charms for Healers, Transfigurations for Healers, Potions for Healers, and so on. I am also looking forward to beginning clinical rotations this year at the AIM teaching hospital._

_I continue to be a strong advocate of Muggleborn and halfblood rights, but over the summer, through hearing from my supporters, I've learned so much more. It isn't just about repealing the laws for me, now – these laws are so widespread, so deep, that I firmly believe that only broader political change can bring us to a truly fair and equitable society. As it stands, Wizarding Britain is the only major wizarding community that continues to be ruled by the nobility, where political power is hereditary. Such a system isolates us and prevents us from adapting to the changing world around us. As much as we try to split ourselves off from the world, whether it be the Muggle world or the international magical community, we cannot. We share this planet with them. One Earth, and whether we are magical or Muggle, we share this planet, this pale blue dot ripping through the vastness of space._

_What we do affects each other. The laws passed by the Wizengamot affect everyone, from the top to the bottom of wizarding society, and it is impossible to know how they will really affect people unless there is a way for everyone to have their views heard. I firmly believe that wider representation, from all parts of wizarding society, is a necessity; anything else makes us vulnerable as the world changes around us. _

_I was delighted that you contacted me for an interview. I think that Bridge fills a much-needed gap in Wizarding British news, providing independent reporting not only on Wizarding Britain but on Muggle Britain and the international magical and non-magical communities. I'm especially looking forward to your proposed columns on Muggle culture, as well – I love Muggle movies, so I'm excited to see what your columnists will think of my favourite films! _

_**How is your cousin, Harry Potter? **_

_Unfortunately, I haven't heard from her in months. I have to trust that, wherever she is, she is doing well. My cousin is one of the strongest people I have ever met, and she is a survivor. I believe that she will overcome whatever life throws her way._

_**Thank you for your time in responding to these questions. Do you have anything else you'd like to add?**_

_This was in my interview with the American Standard, but I understand it was cut out of the version that circulated through Britain, so my apologies to your readers who follow the American Standard. Given the chance, I would like to emphasize to my British readers that the world is big. The world is more than what we see, the world is constantly surprising. Giving everyone the equal chance and opportunity to become their best selves can only make the world a better place. We are all mages_, _and we all have the ability to achieve greatness. _

_Thank you for the interview opportunity, Bridge._

Draco snorted, folding the paper up. Archie Black was even more of a fool than he had thought, if these were the ideas rattling around in his head. He wasn't sure what else he would have expected, but Rigel had never had any ridiculous notions like that. Black had to have picked them up in America.

"What absolute tripe," he said, shaking his head and letting go of the paper, letting Pansy pull it closer to her to finish her own read. "_We all have the ability to achieve greatness_? He sounds like he's drunk a Babbling Beverage. Where did you even get this, Millie?"

Millicent exchanged a glance with Blaise, and Draco got a subtle sense of uncertainty emanating from her. Blaise, too, gave off a mild disapproval, and he shook his head very slightly before turning to Draco.

"She got it from me," Blaise said, shrugging airily, his voice light. "And I got it from Hannah, who got it from one of her other friends."

"I thought it was interesting," Millicent added, leaning back in her seat to look out the train window. Rolling green hills and fields passed by outside their window. "I'm not sure what to think of it yet, but it's interesting."

Draco shook his head in disapproval, tugging the paper back from Pansy to look for the most inflammatory statement. "It's ridiculous, Millie. _Prevents us from adapting to the world around us…_ What is he even talking about? _A pale blue dot ripping through the vastness of space_? He doesn't know anything!"

Millicent shrugged, refusing to make any eye-contact, and Draco felt a cool defensiveness coming from her. "He's also backed by the Kowalskis and the Queenscoves."

"And who are they?" Draco replied, his voice skeptical, then he looked at the picture again. Kowalski couldn't be a pureblood, not with that face, and while he couldn't tell much about Queenscove, who wore a sword around? The picture was ridiculous – it was just Black trying to add some consequence to his name, some legitimacy to his remarks, when he had none.

A brief silence, before Millicent replied, her voice curt. "Kowalski is the son of the Head of Foreign Affairs at the Magical Congress of the United States of America, and the Queenscoves are one of the most prominent, well-connected families in Wizarding Canada. I think they have some connections with the old families in Wizarding China, too. I don't want to talk about this, Draco."

"Then let's discuss something else, shall we?" Pansy cut in, leaning forward with a light smile, though Draco felt only cool disinterest from her. The compartment felt too big, too empty without Rigel and Theo in it. Pansy tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind one ear. "It was good of Lord Riddle to come to Platform 9 and 3/4s to see us all off to school, wasn't it?"

"He had little choice," Blaise replied, leaping at the change in conversation with something like gratefulness. "After the _Daily Prophet_'s rehashing of all of Harry's actions as Rigel, some parents worried about sending their children back to school this year, even after it all died down. His appearance on the platform, assuring us all that we would be safe at school, was a good show of support."

His voice was bland, deadpan, but he was deeply amused by it even while he said it. Draco laughed a little – whatever dangers they had all faced over the last four years, Rigel had never been the cause of them. Rigel had always gotten caught up in trouble, it was true, but it was never of his own making. Indeed, more than once, he had defended the school from some of the unintended consequences of SOW Party plans.

Or she, Draco corrected himself. Harry Potter. That was her name, not Rigel. _Rigel_ did not exist.

"Lord Riddle spoke about new safety measures, though." Pansy's voice was thoughtful. She had actually listened to the speech, while Draco had been distracted, looking against all hope for a familiar shock of messy, black hair. "I wonder what he meant by that. Does anyone have any ideas?"

Millicent turned back around, and even if she was smiling, Draco felt a sharp annoyance. "I would have thought that you and Draco would know best, since your families are, if anything, closer to Lord Riddle than either of ours."

"Regrettably, our personal advocacy on behalf of Harry Potter and our searches have led our parents to exclude us more than they normally would," Pansy replied, with a sigh, and there was a vague sense of disgust. "Not that Father typically involves me in his political affairs – I am almost sixteen, now, and it is past time that I was engaged. Much of my summer was spent preparing for various arranged marriage meetings."

"Pansy's right," Draco added, grimacing even as he cast an apologetic look at Pansy. He had known about the arranged marriage meetings, none of which Pansy had looked particularly thrilled about, and he also suspected that his father intended on putting forward an offer for her. Why else would his father have insisted that he emphasize their close connections over the past few years? It wouldn't be bad, marrying Pansy, he thought, and not for the first time – Pansy was pretty, she was intelligent, and given the dearth of pureblood girls in his generation, that was more than most could expect. It would be a good offer for her and would unite their significant financial and political prowess, but there was the concern of the Parkinson Wizengamot seat, too. "I was trying to have the charges against Harry dropped, and Father grew tired of hearing it. I wasn't able to eavesdrop as much as I normally would."

"Then, I suppose we'll have to find out with the rest of the proletariat," Blaise commented with a slight smile, and Draco knew that he was genuinely amused. "Do better next time, won't you?"

Draco smiled in reply, with a small huff of laughter, and they let it go. Outside, going north, it was becoming darker, as the train plunged into a cloudburst. Fat pellets of mixed rain and hail splattered on the window, the pitter-patter loud against the roof of their compartment. The water streamed down the windows, until all Draco could see was a green-and-blue blur, mixed with intermittent flashes of yellow. Thunder echoed in the distance.

Pansy regaled them with tales from her worst marriage meetings, none of which Draco was particularly surprised to hear. His only surprise, really, was in _who_ the Lord Parkinson had deemed it appropriate to arrange meetings with, none of which he thought were good choices. They were all uniformly awful.

"Martin Audley barely spoke to me the entire meeting – he let his father speak on his behalf, and all he did was stare at me, like I was a horse or a cow. His father wasn't much better, honestly. Then, as we were preparing to leave, Martin says, and I quote," Pansy paused, taking a deep breath, her face marked with disgust even if her emotions were radiating a vindictive sort of pleasure. "_Her tits are small, but her ass is nice, so I'll take her._"

Draco choked, even as both Millicent and Blaise dissolved into laughter.

"I assume you said no," he said, after he recovered. "The Audleys, _really_?"

"Their lands border ours, so it was a matter of etiquette." Pansy wrinkled her tiny, upturned nose. "And of course, I said no. Father didn't even wait the customary three days to decline it."

Millicent and Blaise had both spent a part of their holidays abroad – Geneva, for Millicent, observing the International Confederation of Wizards, and Italy for Blaise. Blaise had brought back jewellery for Hannah, but in Draco's view, it was a little _early_ in their relationship for such expensive ring.

"I don't think it would be so bad if it were a necklace or bracelet," he said slowly, turning the ring over and examining the black opal set on top. It was a perfect, oval-cut stone, shimmering with a bit of hidden power, set in polished gold band. "It's beautiful, but this is an engagement gift, not a courting gift, Blaise."

Blaise sighed, looking down at it mournfully. "I worried as much. But the other things I brought back for her are small – a lace shawl from Venice, a little Murano glass sparrow. I worry it's not enough."

Millicent and Pansy exchanged a look, while Draco tried to find polite words to explain that Venetian lace and Murano glass were plenty luxurious, almost a little too much in and of themselves. "Blaise," he started slowly, but the train slowed.

Draco frowned, and Blaise stood and looked out the window. They couldn't be at school yet. Millicent pulled out her wand, casting a quick Tempus Charm – it was barely four in the afternoon, but it was almost as dark as night. He could barely see outside, but Blaise evidently saw something, because he turned around sharply.

"We're on the bridge over the ravine," he said briefly, his wand in his hand and his nostrils flaring. He nearly stepped over Draco on his haste to the sliding door of the compartment. "There are shapes outside the window. I need to go find Hannah, excuse me."

He was gone before Draco could ask him anything else.

There was the crash, an explosion, from farther down the train, and the lights flickered, went off. Draco looked at both Pansy and Millicent, squinting a little in the sudden darkness – Pansy had her wand out and wore a determined look on her face, pushing herself between Millicent and the window for a look. She was a frightening dueller, if Draco could say so himself. She had Millicent behind her, though the tall, bulky girl looked nervous. He flicked his wrist, bringing his wand in hand.

"We need walk the train," Pansy said quietly, almost too quiet to be heard over the sound of the wind, the rain outside, and now, things breaking farther down the train. Their carriage rattled, a little – they were on a bridge, Blaise had said, and Draco suddenly felt very insecure. "_Lumos! _We're prefects now, Draco – the younger students are our responsibility."

Draco hesitated and winced. Pansy was right, but he took one look at Millicent – she didn't have much experience in duelling and hadn't come out consistently to Draco's duelling club. She was pale, her brown eyes huge.

"I'll follow," she said, taking a deep breath. "Right behind you."

"No, between us," Draco decided quickly. He thought he could hear something else, from the corridor – yelling, the sound of carriage doors opening, slamming shut. They had to go. "I'll lead, then Millie, you stay in the middle, and Pansy can bring up the rear."

The noise amplified a hundred-fold as soon as they were in the corridor, where it seemed like fifty students were streaming past, yelling for their siblings, their friends. Ron Weasley was there, his freckles standing out starkly in his white face, and Draco nearly collided face-first into him. Weasley was one of the Gryffindor prefects, his counterpart being Parvati Patil.

"Watch where you're going," Draco snapped, waspish given the sounds, the feelings, echoing up and down the train and pushing a tiny underclassman aside. "You, get back in your compartment – running around like an animal isn't going to help!"

"Watch where _you're_ going," Weasley retorted, similarly pushing another student out of the way as he fought to move forward, his wand out. More swearing up ahead, and this time, Draco saw the light of spell-fire.

Weasley swallowed. "That was my sister," he muttered, brushing past Draco and hurrying down the long aisle. "I'm going ahead. Later, Malfoy."

Draco shook his head, fighting the urge to plunge in behind him. He was not an idiot Gryffindor, rushing headlong into danger, and besides, the aisle was crowded, hectic, too full of curious students who wanted to know what was happening. The smarter ones saw spell-fire and dove back into their compartments – the rest, Draco started herding back into their compartments.

"Come on, get out of the corridors," he growled at more than one student. "I'm a prefect, get out of the way, get in your compartments until we know what is happening!"

He could hear Pansy doing the same, and they left Millicent with a compartment of scared looking first years, since they probably didn't know the right way to hold their wands yet. Millicent looked all too nervous as they left her behind, but Draco gave her a stern stare and a meaningful look at the five little first-years. She swallowed, nodded, and went with them with a weak sort of smile.

"It'll be fine," he heard her say behind him. "Don't worry. Tell me, what are your names? Where are you from?"

The sound of pitched fighting and spell-fire grew louder as they inched closer, pushing past students, trying to clear the hallway. All too soon, someone slammed into Draco, shoving him backwards against one wall of the train, and he barely had a chance to raise his wand.

"Get out of the way," the man snarled at him, shoving past him to go farther down the train. He wasn't a student.

"_Impedimenta!" _Draco heard Pansy's cry, and he was in it – he was in the thick of things, and his wand was out. He left his assaulter to Pansy's tender mercies, behind him, comforting himself with the sound of her voiced spells, as he looked forward into the morass of people crowding the hallway for several feet in front of him. All of them were moving, fighting, part of one large, amorphous being. He could hear Weasley's voice in the mass, too – multiple Weasleys, unless he was much mistaken. Ginny Weasley was spitting in rage, and he heard a Bat Bogey Hex being thrown.

He couldn't _see_. It was too dark, the small flicking wand-lights bobbing over the scene weren't enough for him to separate friend and foe. If he couldn't see, he couldn't _aim_.

"Lumos Maxima!" he yelled, wincing as the bright light shone from the tip of his wand, and he detached without further thought, sending it soaring to the ceiling. The sudden brightness was a both a boon and a curse – the light was blinding, too bright, but he could _see_, he could see the half-dozen masked witches and wizards in pitched battle with four redheads in the corridors. Ernest MacMillan had his compartment door half-open, and he and Justin Finch-Fletchley were firing from behind cover, and he thought he saw Cho Chang and another Ravenclaw on the other side of the battle, wands out and entering the fray.

"_Incarcerous_!" Draco roared, pointing his wand at one of the masked wizards, who batted his spell away as if it was nothing, sending a _Flipendo_ back at him. "_Depulso!"_

The wizard batted that one away, too, while Draco dodged a _Stupefy_ spell. There was a crash, and the train rocked – he heard someone screaming a Bombardment Charm up ahead. "_Pertus! Stupefy! Impedimenta!"_

"Do not hurt the children!" Another masked man was yelling, and Draco pushed forward, casting a _Protego_ to deflect a wayward Stunning spell. "My Lord does not want the children harmed! They're only children, you useless lot of amateurs – move!"

"I'll give you child, you steaming sack of shit!" One of the Weasley twins yelled in reply, as the other one launched a firecracker into the corridor. Draco dodged and shielded, and not a moment too soon as it exploded – not once, but four times in close succession, bright sparks careening through the air, blinding everyone worse than Draco's Lumos spell.

"Anti-Apparition Wards are down!" he heard another man cry, while he tried to blink the blindness away. "Go, go, go! _Morsmordre!_"

Green light streamed upwards, through a gaping hole that had been opened in the roof of the train. Draco swore, sending another _Impedimenta_ spell at one of the masked figures, but his target twisted and was gone.

"Fuck!" One of the Weasley twins swore, then he twisted in the air and disappeared. Draco could hear the hard _crack! _of Apparition running up and down the train – they weren't Apparating away, he realized, just up and down the train. Draco whipped around, seeing Pansy's white face, and they both grimaced and started running back, the way they came.

The masked witches and wizards were slamming open compartment doors, throwing what looked like papers, and Draco heard screaming, shrieking, crying from down the train. There was a wild, cackling laughter coming from one of the witches as she ran, as she Apparated every few steps, throwing curses back at the Weasley twin who was chasing her. Whichever one it was, he dodged, but couldn't pin her down with any of his spells, either. The other Ravenclaw, the one with Cho, was Apparating up and down the train as well, having no more success than the Weasley Twins were, and there just weren't enough of them. Without Apparition, he and Pansy were slow, too slow to catch up to the high-speed chase, and then, with a final _bang_, they were gone.

Twenty minutes of mayhem, a gaping hole in the rooftop, and they were gone.

Draco looked up, panting slightly, and he could just see a pale, green light shining through the rain pouring into the train. He inched back towards the hole, to where he could see the shape better, pushing his wet bangs out of his face, ignoring the chill seeping through his robes.

It was a skull – a gigantic, green skull, with a serpent hanging out of its jaws, a macabre tongue that writhed in the air as the jaws opened and closed, rotating slowly in the air above the train. It was disgusting, vulgar in its crudeness.

Pansy was staring up at the skull beside him, her nose wrinkled in distaste. The rain plastered her blonde hair to her head, a few strands stuck to her face. She looked at Draco and sighed, shaking her head.

"Come on," she said, her voice strangely loud after the fight, echoing weirdly above the sound of the wind and rain. "Let's go find Millie, and Blaise. And I want to see what the papers are."

The train shuddered, and with a jerk, it trembled to life. Draco and Pansy picked their way carefully back down the train, amid the debris of broken compartment doors, and they weren't the only ones. Upper-years, and not only prefects, were coming out of their compartments, checking on their friends, their Housemates, the new first-years.

They stopped by Millicent's new compartment to pick her up, but she was holding onto one of the new first years, who was crying. Two others looked on the verge of tears too, while the other two were trying and failing to hold themselves together.

"They came by, opened the doors, threw these papers at us," Millicent told them quietly, nodding at the papers littering the ground as she rubbed the back of the girl crying in her arms. "I tried to hex them, but I wasn't fast enough. Sorry."

"It's fine, Millie," Draco said, picking up one of the papers. "As long as no one was hurt."

"I don't think they were trying to hurt anyone, Drake," Pansy said, picking up a sheet of paper of her own. "They meant to scare us, to make a point, but not to hurt us."

Draco looked at the paper in his hands – the water made the ink run, but the headline was still clear. _NOWHERE IS SAFE_, it read. He took a deep breath, leaned down, and started gathering the papers strewn on the floor. The first years didn't need to see this. He hesitated, his eyes lingering on the first years – they needed someone to comfort them, and for now, Millicent was it. "We're going back to our compartment, Millie – come when you can, all right?"

She nodded, distracted. "When I can, yes. If I can't, can you make sure my trunk gets to school?"

"Of course," Pansy replied, holding the sliding door politely open for Draco.

Blaise was already sitting in their compartment, his eyes skimming over the paper in his hands, his worry rubbing against Draco's consciousness.

"Abbott?" Draco couldn't help but ask. He would have expected Blaise to be stuck to his girlfriend for the rest of the trip. Blaise was not a reasonable person about Abbott at the best of times.

Blaise waved the paper in his hands – it was identical to the dozen or so that Draco held. "Hannah read this and said she needed to go talk to someone. I tried to follow but she was gone before I could. I could still_ smell_ her, but I didn't see where she could have gone…" He pressed his lips together in frustration and shook his head. "I will find her later."

Pansy sat down, twisting wet blonde locks in a rope and tossing it over her shoulder, out of the way, before she picked up the one of the papers. "Nowhere is safe," she read, blue eyes skimming the rest of the short tract. "Wizarding Britain has lost its way… Lord Riddle, a false prophet… forced to demean ourselves before those of lesser blood, what on earth is that about?"

"The ICW is my guess," Blaise replied, expressionless. Draco picked up a sheet himself, the cleanest one he could find, with only a few wet splotches on it. "There are also a lot of comments blaming our economy on Lord Riddle and the SOW Party. It's mad, but there you have it."

"Dumbledore's group?" Draco muttered, skimming it for himself. It was utter madness, blaming Lord Riddle, the weak Ministry, the SOW Party for all the ills of Wizarding Britain. Even the words used – false prophet, straying from the path of greatness – sounded absurd. "Or the people behind the new paper, _Bridge?"_

"Think with your head, Draco, not your prejudices." Blaise shook his head, frowning in disapproval, which Draco felt sharply with his empathy. "_Forced to demean ourselves before those of lesser blood? _Lord Dumbledore is for blood equality and always has been, and while I haven't much experience with _Bridge_, they published an update from the Muggle British Parliament and have a column promoting Muggle culture. They're likely, if anything, even more pro-integration and pro-Muggle than Lord Dumbledore. More than that, the paper itself is different – it smells different, it feels different, it's heavier and the ink doesn't come off as easily. It's higher quality."

"They moved fast, whoever they are," Pansy murmured, tucking the paper she held away in her bag. "The title is a direct reference to Lord Riddle's morning speech, as is the attack. Thank heaven they weren't aiming to hurt anyone."

"I will raise with my father the issue of security on the school train." Draco paused, then sighed. "I wish we had Rigel with us. He would have been able to do something about this."

There was a brief pause, before Pansy corrected him. "Harry," she said, her voice soft, leaning back against the plush train seats and looking out the window. "Her name is Harry."

Back at school, they were met with another surprise before they had even sat down to the Welcome Feast. Dolores Umbridge, Senior Prosecutor for the Ministry of Magic, dominated the Entrance Hall, directing students into lines while the Heads of Houses and Lord Dumbledore stood by. Their faces were calm, impassive, but Draco could feel a bright, burning fury from both Professors Sprout and McGonagall, and his godfather's left eyebrow was twitching. Not a good sign, in Draco's experience.

"Professor Umbridge," Draco heard Dumbledore say, no smile on his normally cheerful face. "Surely statements can wait until the children have _eaten_. They have had a long journey from London, and they are no doubt starving."

"Once I have them in order, the ones I am not interviewing may go ahead," Umbridge replied, her high-pitched, girlish voice uncaring as she separated Millicent from her group of first years, who clung to her. They started crying, but she merely confirmed that Millicent was a Slytherin fifth year and pushed her towards the other Slytherins, making a tutting noise at the first years. None of the crowd of first-years, Draco saw, looked very happy – they all looked pale, terrified. "The Ministry will need the freshest evidence possible to track down the persons responsible for this crime."

"I hardly think that one night will make a difference," Professor McGonagall snapped, her voice harsh as she went to her Gryffindors.

Umbridge twittered, her laugh light and condescending. "My dear Professor McGonagall, with all due respect, you have not been trained in these matters as I have. The Minister for Magic and Lord Riddle himself have tasked me with a review of Hogwarts, including both educational quality and safety, and I have been granted the authority to see it done in the manner I see fit. An attack on the Hogwarts Express is a serious matter – I am sure that, if you'd like to contact the Minister or Lord Riddle, they would be all too happy to confirm this for you. Again."

"Well," Draco heard Pansy say beside him, her voice cool, almost a little amused even if he felt nothing of the like echoing from her. "I suppose we now know what Lord Riddle's new _safety precautions_ are."

XXX

Neal hated the nobility, he decided. He absolutely hated the nobility, and he hated being noble, and he hated the million etiquette rules he apparently now had to learn, the hundreds of family names and reputations he now had to memorize, and he _really_ hated the family trees.

"You know you're all inbred, right?" he said conversationally, about three hours into staring at the complicated mess. It looked like someone had barfed a ball of yarn all over his library worktable. "Or, I guess _you're_ less inbred than most, but I'm shocked that Archie doesn't have a massive protuberant jaw and underbite like the Habsburgs developed. I mean, _tabernak_."

"The Blacks have always struggled with madness," Blake replied, waving one dismissive hand. "And pureblood genetics – we either inherit our ancestors' gifts wholly or not at all, so as long as the blood is kept pure…"

"That is such utter and complete _merde_." Neal shook his head in disgust, throwing his arms up and throwing a tiny gust of wind at the offending parchment. The paper lifted a little, but it didn't flip over as he intended. His sword really needed to be out of non-being for him to call a stronger wind. "Magic does make genetics behave a little strangely, but it's not that severe. After marrying your first cousins for so long, there should be obvious, quantifiable effects – look at Iceland, or Ashkenazi Jews! Tay-Sachs! Ellis-van Creveld disease! Hemophilia!"

"I don't know what those are, Queenscove," Blake said patiently, holding down a corner of the grotesque family tree with one hand before Neal could throw another gust of wind at it. "But there _are_ effects, or I suspect there are – look at the Fade. No one says as much, but it hits the purest bloodlines the hardest."

Neal scowled. Right, the Fade – he now lived in a world where children regularly died for no explicable reason. Or rather, there was an explicable, if incurable reason: according to the few studies that existed, the usual barrier that existed between soul and magic was fractured in children with the Fade, causing them to slowly weaken and die when their magical cores finally, after a prolonged and desperately awful process, detected no soul to hold them and fled into wild magic. The solution, the geneticists said, was simple: more genetic diversity. Marry and produce children with people who aren't as horrifically inbred.

That wasn't a message that had been received in Wizarding Britain, apparently.

"If you don't mind me asking…" Blake paused, tilting his head as if to search for the words. "Do Chinese heirloom-casting families not suffer the same? I imagine that heirloom-casting, and the need to be born in an heirloom-casting family to practice it, is very similar to blood-status. Would an heirloom-caster not marry another heirloom-caster?"

Neal shook his head, flicking another wind spell at the cursed family tree, knowing it wouldn't do anything. "Different contexts. Heirloom casting is very strong on attack and defensive spells, but it's limited in purpose. I can't use my sword to Heal or Transfigure anything, for example. Heirloom-casters are powerful warriors, but little else – paper-casters have historically formed the political and educated classes, so it's common for a paper-caster to marry into an heirloom-caster family. Also, elemental magic is a major backbone to our casting style, so heirloom-caster families are always looking to bring in new elemental affinities. As a windmage, even with the same spells, my attack and defensive magic have very different effects than my brother Graeme, my sister and my mother, who are firemages. Clans with many elemental affinities survive wartime better."

"Ah." Blake's yellow-orange eyes lit up in understanding, and he leaned casually against the table. "And the most unusual elemental affinities are wild, cropping up only in halfbloods and Muggleborns, who are consequently more likely to marry into an heirloom-caster family."

"Something like that." Neal shrugged, slumping in his chair. He was tired. He didn't want to study this complete and utter _merde _in front of him. "What's your elemental affinity?"

Blake paused, thinking before giving his answer. It wasn't, to Neal's knowledge, an offensive question, but one never knew in Wizarding Britain. Blake would point it out, if it was – that was what Neal paid him for, after all.

"Ice," he said finally, then he tapped the parchment on the table. It folded, turning into a neat stack. "Back to work, Queenscove."

"Fitting." Neal grimaced. Blake had folded the ridiculous parchment tree into something like a book, and now it flipped like a book, too. Only seeing pieces of the awful family tree didn't make it any better.

"It's easier if you break it into pieces," Blake suggested, pointing at the title of the first page. "The Blacks. Lord Sirius Orion Black, Heir Arcturus Rigel Black. Who are their primary familial connections?"

Neal sighed, shutting his eyes in pain. _Crissez_ the formal titles, as well. "On Archie's mother's side, the Fawleys, who are ridiculously inbred with the Albrights. More traditionally, the Blacks have links to the Travers, the Rosiers, the Malfoys, and the Lestranges."

"Very good."

His brain always felt like mush after Blake got through with it. Blake even said that he got a _simplified_ version of noble etiquette, with only _one_ type of bow instead of three, vastly simplified dancing (which Neal suspected was mainly because Blake didn't want to dance the follower's role), and he skipped most of the more ancient rituals. Thank _all_ the gods, for that, because just the etiquette he _was_ required to learn was _awful_. When would he ever need to know the protocol for a formal duel of honour, anyway?

As far as Neal was concerned, Blake was worth the gold that he was being paid. He didn't just spend hours teaching Neal everything he supposedly had to know about the Wizarding British nobles he now belonged with, their customs and their etiquette, he also took the lead in planning Neal's introduction to Society, advising on the image Neal should to portray to the Wizengamot, and pointing out key, potential ally families that most would likely align with Neal's interests – all of them, not just blood equality.

"In terms of blood equality, those families are obvious enough: Lord Dumbledore leads the pro-blood-equality pack, whose families also include the Blacks, the Potters, the Longbottoms, the Shacklebolts, the Prewetts, and Shafiqs. But about most of those families care little about international trade and politics – for that, you want to ally yourselves with other families with international connections: the Rosiers have many trade interests abroad, and the Shafiqs are well connected through South Asia." Blake paused, thinking it over. "The Shafiqs are Book of Copper only, but their interests may align closest with Queenscove for the moment. Once you're properly announced, I'll draft an invitation to the Lord Shafiq. The Lord Rosier, too – while normally Dark and a part of the SOW Party, he is in disgrace and it's worth trying. More allies are better than less for your first day in the Wizengamot. We'll have the Lord Black introduce you formally to the other Light Families – no, wait. We'll host a small, exclusive event at Queenscove for the Light Families. Your holdings are formidable, and I want your likeliest allies to see them."

The announcement went out first in the _Daily Prophet – _a tiny ad, sharing space with births, deaths, betrothals, and marriage announcements._ Nealan Yuanren Queenscove has claimed his birthright title and hereby declares himself the thirty-fifth Lord of Queenscove. Any challengers to title to present themselves at Queenscove by the tenth of September, or forever relinquish claim._

It sounded absolutely preposterous, and Blake didn't even let Neal have any _fun _with it by adding _Knight of the Realm_, _Defender of the Faith_, or even just _Son of Song _to his titles. The last one was even _legitimate_ – Neal was a recognized son of the Chinese Song family of heirloom casters! Blake just had no sense of _whimsy_, that was the problem.

The announcement ran on the first of September, and there was no reaction to it. That didn't seem to bother Blake any – even without the attack on the school train (and why didn't the British use a _Portkey Hub_ to get to school, anyway?), Blake hadn't thought the nobility would pay it any mind. It was enough for him to write formal letters seeking meetings with the Lords Shafiq and Rosier, but even those, he didn't expect much of a response – not until Neal's interview ran in _Bridge_, on the eighth, anyway.

Before then, his mother showed up. Neal was even able to leave Queenscove for the afternoon, to meet her at Heathrow and help her Floo back to his new holdings.

"Mama, you didn't need to come," he told her, that very first day, struggling with his language a little. His Mandarin was rusty, not that it had ever been especially good. It was only a part-time home language, whereas he had done primary school in French, and AIM was, of course, in English. "This country, it isn't safe."

Song Mei Ling looked up at him, her eyes entirely skeptical. She was a full head shorter than him and didn't look a day older than the day she had married his father, and yet somehow Neal still felt like cowering before her. "All the more reason, Yuanren, for me to come. Or shall I remind you of which family member did _not_ make his school Triwizard team?"

Neal scowled. His family would never let him live it down. "Mama, we've gone through this! John is a Natural Legilimens, and he had new technology!"

"And yet, your loss could have been prevented if you had trained more," his mother replied, her voice implacable, and Neal fought the urge to roll his eyes. There was no arguing around her, so he changed the topic instead.

"But what about your work, Mama?" he asked, taking his mother's carry on and leading the way out of the airport. "And Papa?"

"I can find a position teaching Mandarin as easily in Edinburgh or London as I can in Montréal, Yuanren." His mother shook her head, stern. "For the moment, you need me more than your father."

Surprisingly, Blake agreed. The morning they had met, he had given her a formal bow, in the Wizarding British style, the same one what he had taught Neal, and his mother had risen from the breakfast table and bowed right back at him, though her hands were folded neatly in front of her.

Blake raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Neal. "I had not realized that you knew any formal etiquette at all."

"He doesn't," his mother said, bowing again, this one somehow slightly apologetic. "I saw no need to teach my sons formal Chinese etiquette, living in Canada as we do."

"Ah. Understandable." Blake nodded, bowing again in reply. If Neal didn't intercede, he wondered if his mother and Blake would spend all afternoon bowing to each other. Kel did this sometimes, when she came to visit, and he would always have to poke her and remind her that they weren't in Japan. Blake offered his mother a small smile. "It is a pleasure to have you here, however. As Nealan may have told you, we are planning a small event next week for members of select noble families that he may find himself allied with when the Wizengamot re-opens. Your assistance would be much appreciated."

"Hmm," his mother had replied, taking her fan out from where it hung at her waist, discreetly folded within the pleats of her long skirt and using it to tap her lower lip. "And I assume this event is for the purpose of showing off my son's well designed and easily defended fortress as well as his wealth?"

A full smile crept across Blake's face, and Neal was horrified to see a similar one dancing one his mother's lips. "I think you and I understand each other perfectly, Lady Queenscove. Nealan, did you complete the questions for your interview with _Bridge_? Bring them to me, let me review them."

"My least favourite aunt calls me Nealan," Neal complained, heading to the library where he had left his interview answers.

Neal's interview with _Bridge_ was, in his opinion, far more boring than Archie's had been. His questions only dealt with his background, how he had come to Britain, his claiming of the title, and his plans for the House Queenscove. The whole thing didn't even feel real – Blake had taken his responses and completely rewritten them. He and his background had been fluffed up: he was the third son of the powerful Queenscove family, a well-connected family of Wizarding Canada directly descended from House Queenscove. On his mother's side, he was a member of the Song Family, another old wizarding family whose members historically formed part of the formidable Chinese Army, then the Chinese Auror Corps. His brother Graeme Yuanrong Queenscove was an Auror in Montreal, while his brother William Yuanxi Queenscove was a political analyst with the Canadian delegation to the International Confederation of Wizards. They were a warrior family, his mother had been very pleased to read, as if she hadn't hovered over Blake's shoulder emphasizing that very point, and the rest of that section was an outline of their extensive accomplishments.

Neal had just given up at that point and headed for the lists. At least, there, his sword wasn't constantly correcting him at every move.

Blake had also cleaned up his answer on how he had come to Britain and claimed the title. The whole thing was surreal – he had taken out all the whimsy of Neal's summer backpacking abroad. Instead, Neal had been on a wizard's traditional Grand Tour, including a visit with his brother in Geneva, and had decided to research his family background in Britain on the way home. He had arrived on Queenscove lands only to find the family seat empty, and after considerable thought and consultation with his family, he had decided to claim the title.

That was an outright lie, but both Blake and his mother considered that it was better not to have Neal look like a complete idiot who had stumbled into his title purely though curiosity and stupidity. Even if there was no one in Wizarding Britain who could challenge him for title, it made Queenscove look like a united front, which was another reason for puffing them _all_ up. The thought of facing off against Neal Queenscove was to be intimidating – the thought of taking on the entire Queenscove clan was to be terrifying.

Neal was also amused to be informed that his future plans were very much in line with Archie's, in _Bridge_ the week before, if put in even more stark terms. _Having grown up in Wizarding Canada, _he apparently said, _I was deeply shocked to find that Wizarding Britain has no equivalent to the House of Commons. I am a strong believer in equal representation, and I intend on using my seat, and my vote, in the Wizengamot to push for widespread enfranchisement and the establishment of a House of Commons. For the time being, I intend on acting as a de facto representative to the Wizengamot and would be pleased to hear from mages living on or near Queenscove about the issues most concerning to you and to your families. Aside from this, I am also a firm believer in blood equality and the merits of participating in the global economy, so I will be pushing for change that will bring Wizarding Britain back into the good graces of the International Confederation of Wizards. Without the sanctions, I hope that international trade will open, bringing the economy out of the slump it has been in for many decades._

Positively inflammatory, Blake had reported, and Castle Queenscove had nearly purred. Neal's castle _liked_ standing up for those who had no voice of their own – the thing was obsessed with chivalry, based on the books it kept dumping on Neal's bedside table.

Sometimes, Neal even read them.

Both Lords Shafiq and Rosier had responded after the interview ran in Bridge, but it was many more letters of negotiation that Blake dictated for him before Neal met with either of them. Lord Shafiq had insisted on their first meeting occurring on his lands, in the south of England, and Blake had deemed it appropriate to agree since Lord Shafiq would likely be attending at Queenscove with the Light families later that week. Lord Rosier, however, would not be, so Blake had insisted that Neal meet with him only on Queenscove grounds.

"For both meetings, remember – you're Book of Gold, wherever you might have been raised. Your holdings are as impressive as theirs. Don't let them walk over you," Blake said, fixing Neal's appearance. Neal had foregone robes, instead adopting the traditional surcoat of Chinese heirloom-casters. In all honestly, Neal would have preferred to be in a T-shirt and a well-broken in pair of jeans – it wasn't like his sword skill was any more or less in the traditional surcoat, but it was all about impression. The surcoat complemented his sword, hanging obviously at his waist. Blake, stiff in a collared shirt, trousers and a waistcoat, wouldn't be going to these meetings with Neal.

Lord Shafiq was a thin, nut-brown man whose eyes lingered with some interest on Neal's sword, but he didn't comment. Instead, there was a slight glimmer of approval, before the old man invited him into one of his finer parlours and his wife served them a sweet, milky chai. Neal had run entirely off Blake's talking points, emphasizing their commonalities in their views on blood equality and international connections. The meeting had gone well – well enough, indeed, that Lord Shafiq offered to introduce him to one of his younger daughters, to see if they might suit.

"You said _no_, of course," Blake said, when Neal returned, completely calm in the face of Neal waving his arms frantically in the air, spluttering in panic.

"_Osti_, of course I said no!" Neal howled back at him, hopping up and down and little in alarm. "Who _asks_ that? I said I was seeing someone, and then when he asked more, I said that she was Japanese and finishing her studies at Mahoutokoro!"

Blake nodded, satisfied. "A good response. I can work with that. Do note, Queenscove, that arranged marriages are the norm here. The Lord Shafiq is a good connection but were you to be looking at marriage prospects within Wizarding Britain, you should be looking at Book of Silver, at bare minimum."

Neal tried to hex him, but Blake obviously expected it and dodged. It hadn't been a serious attempt anyway.

His meeting with Lord Rosier, later that afternoon, also went well. On Blake's recommendation, Neal had taken him on a private tour of his extensive grounds, before they sat down to business – international trade. As Blake had predicted, his father, still being in disgrace, was open to new political allies, especially one keen on opening the international markets. Neal was reasonably certain that, even if he and Lord Rosier hadn't come to any specific agreements, Lord Rosier would not be opposing his entry in the Wizengamot.

The day of the _event_, as Blake called it, Neal loosened the wards on the Floo. Neal didn't even _like_ the Floo very much – what was even the _point _of his ravelins, his walls, and his killing field if there was a _Floo _that could bypass all his defensive fortifications? The problem was that the closest and best Apparition point to his grounds was about an hour's brisk walk away from the castle itself, which was incredibly inconvenient, not only for his guests, but for Neal himself. For the moment, he had decided to keep the Floo connection, but had instead made Blake help him redouble the wards on the Floo, adding in a required passcode, and he added in a destructive fail-safe to collapse the entry point if needed. The fail-safe, unfortunately, collapsed his fireplace, but in the event of an attack, at bare minimum the Floo itself would be a bottleneck and he could collapse it before too many people got in.

Sirius was the first to arrive, along with Remus Lupin, whom Neal recognized vaguely from his few trips to Grimmauld Place. He was followed by a stiff woman with iron-grey hair, tightly curled and pinned to her head.

"Lady Augusta Longbottom," Blake muttered to him. He had, thankfully, remained behind for this event. "The Longbottoms generally vote with Lord Dumbledore and the Light faction but have been known to change their position occasionally and vote in favour of SOW Party initiatives."

Lady Longbottom looked around, frowning a little. "Overdoing it on the medieval aesthetic, are we?" she said critically, and Neal saw his mother, smiling, going to intercept her.

"We are a family of warriors," she said, pulling her fan out delicately and using it to shield the lower part of her face with an air of embarrassment, casting her eyes down. "We have, I must say, never grown fully accustomed to living in peace, and are regrettably more comfortable in these settings."

In short, Neal thought, suppressing a roll of his eyes, we're more than prepared to defend ourselves, so don't even think about crossing us.

Lady Longbottom was followed by a middle-aged, rotund man that Blake identified as the Heir Ollivander, then by a tall, Black man wearing a round cap, decorated with a diamond pattern worked in silver and gold thread. The Lord Shacklebolt, in person, apparently. The Lord Shafiq followed shortly thereafter, with a friendly nod towards Neal and a formal bow to his mother, followed by the Lord Nond, a young, slight, somewhat waif-like blond shadow. Lord Naxen arrived next, his clear hazel eyes keen as he examined the tapestries lining Neal's great hall, followed shortly by one of the Prewetts – not the current Lord, Fabian Prewett, but his younger brother, Gideon. Finally, Raoul Goldenlake, the Heir Goldenlake, who was built like a mountain and wore a bright, friendly smile, nearly fell out of the fireplace.

"Oh, it's nice to arrive somewhere where I don't have to stoop to get out of the fireplace," he said, sighing in relief, stepping into Neal's great hall. He looked around, dark eyes considering, before offering a friendly, polite bow to Neal. "Your hall is impressive, Lord Queenscove, and I look forward to talking with you further. I was very interested in your remarks in _Bridge_ – I'm very impressed with your decision to take up the title, especially given what you must have heard about our little nation."

"Thank you," Neal replied, a little flummoxed for response, but he didn't have the time to think through a proper reply right then and there, or to look to Blake for help. "I'm, uh, also looking forward to talking with you further. I'm sorry, but I think that is everyone – Lord Dumbledore sent his regrets, and I have had no response from any of the other invited families."

"Understandable," Goldenlake sighed, looking away to admire the great hall again. "An attack on the Hogwarts Express is serious, and Lord Dumbledore is already going to have to answer questions about it to the Wizengamot. As for the rest, it is their loss – already, I am glad that I came."

The whole evening was, as far as Neal was concerned, an aggravating, headache-inducing play of manners. His mother obviously enjoyed it, and Neal would have thought that Blake would have as well. But he hadn't accounted for the loss of status that Blake must have recently suffered, as well as who Blake must have been before Neal arrived in Wizarding Britain.

"What are you doing here?" That was a question that more than one of Neal's guests directed at him, while Blake stood, still as stone, expressionless by Neal's side. Some of them were just curious – others wore a look of slight distaste, though it couldn't have been because of Blake's blood-status. Neal _hoped_ that it wasn't because of Blake's blood-status, but he didn't really know.

"I'm the Lord Queenscove's personal assistant," Blake would reply, his voice cool and devoid of emotion. "It is a pleasure to see you again." He would then bow, a lower bow than Neal had been taught, one that made Neal grit his teeth to see. He didn't need an explicit explanation to know that Blake, by the rules of the society he now lived in, was in some way debasing himself before these nobles.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Lady Longbottom had sneered, on seeing him, and Neal privately resolved to put her in his black books. Heir Ollivander, too, wrinkled his nose at Blake, while the Lords Shacklebolt, Shafiq, and Nond seemed content with his answer and proceeded to ignore him entirely throughout the evening. Only Prewett studied him, clear hazel eyes sympathetic, and Goldenlake tried to say hello and smile, but Blake ignored them both – knowing him, Neal guessed that the sympathy was worse than the derision.

The whole thing seemed rather pointless. They chatted about light things, about their families, about their summers when their children were at home, about Quidditch or business or holidays. Neal answered a wide range of questions about his family, about his _Grand Tour_ through Europe, about his decision to claim the title (which had been massaged into something with considerably more deliberation). Neal felt like a puppet, mechanically smiling and answering questions, while inside he was dying of boredom. It wasn't that he didn't _like _many of them – he did seem to have a lot in common with Heir Goldenlake, getting sucked into a conversation about European duelling circuit rankings, with Lord Naxen listening in interest, and he and Prewett spoke at some length about common sights they had both seen in France.

They just hadn't talked about anything of _substance,_ and even if Queenscove was purring contentedly in the back of his mind, Neal didn't see the point. None of this seemed to get Neal any closer to his goal of _leaving_ _Queenscove_. He hadn't gotten to know anyone well enough to be able to entrust his castle with them – as if Queenscove would even allow that, yet.

"Don't expect so much, so early," Blake said, at the end of the evening, drinking a final, tiny cup of tea that his mother had brewed. "The purpose of tonight was to give you a soft introduction to some of the people who will form your allies in the Wizengamot – and to show them why they should take you seriously. They saw your holdings, they toured some of your protective defenses, and you gave them ample reason not to become your enemy. Thank you, Lady Queenscove, for all your assistance."

"My pleasure," Neal's mother said, two hands on her own small teacup, made in the Chinese style. "It has been far too long since I've dipped into politics of any kind – I enjoyed it."

All of that led to this day, the opening of the Wizengamot. Blake was by early in the morning, checking Neal's chosen outfit.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Neal complained, letting the other boy fix his knee-length surcoat. This was a nicer one than he had worn for either his meetings with Lord Shafiq or Lord Rosier or the _event_ he had had at Queenscove, after which he had tightened the wards on the Floo to ensure that none of his guests from that night could enter without an invitation. This surcoat had his personal arms embroidered on it – the Queenscove ship and crown, quartered with the Song family crest, worked gold on green. "You _do_ work, don't you?"

"The main project I am working on has its first meeting this afternoon," Blake replied brusquely, tugging at the back of Neal's collar straight. "I can simply work later, to compensate for the late start I will have this morning. Now." He walked around, looking at Neal critically, before nodding. "You look about as good as you ever will. Good luck – the Lord Black will help you, as much as he can, and do try to avoid being kicked out of the Wizengamot. With the seat being alive, I think it will be hard to avoid the conclusion that you are the rightful Lord, but you should expect much hesitation from SOW Party families in any event. Still, with the attack on the Hogwarts Express, my hope is that they'll be more interested in putting Lord Dumbledore on the spot than dealing with you."

"Sounds _wonderful_," Neal replied, gritting his teeth and looking at himself in the mirror. He looked good – he looked like the version of himself that he remembered his mother dressing him up to be, for their very few visits to her family in China. There were moments, here and there, where his farther-flung family members would try to guilt his mother for marrying his father, but that was always easily settled by him and his brothers and sister on the training courts – he and Graeme, even as children, were _bigger_ than most of his similarly-aged cousins, and while Will was small, he was fast and tricky, and Jessa had always had a vicious streak to her. He wished this problem were one that could be managed the same way.

It didn't matter. Queenscove wanted him to act like its Lord and attending the Wizengamot was one of the primary functions of a Lord. So, he would have to attend and do what he must, and maybe he should even try to find some fun with it. He was a _Book of Gold_ noble, after all, and the way Blake put it, that meant he could pull rank if he wanted. And Sirius would be going with him, that day, to make sure he got in. He checked his sword, belted formally at his waist today, and he ran one finger lightly over the metal-and-bone hilt.

"All will go well, Yuanren," his mother said, waiting by the fireplace in the hall, reaching up to wrap him in a rare hug. "Know your worth. Hold your head with pride. Many of the nobles here are provincial fools and know nothing about the world – have pity for them only. You will do well."

"Thank you, Mama," Neal muttered, leaning down to return the hug. "I will."

Sirius was waiting for him at Grimmauld Place, in his best robes – black velvet, gleaming a little in the light, with shining dragon-hide leather boots. His face was grim, if resigned. "Ready for hell on earth?"

"No," Neal admitted bluntly, brushing a bit of extra soot off himself. "But I never will be, so let's just go."

"Truer words," Sirius grumbled, shaking his head and leading the way out the front doors of Grimmauld Place, heading to the shadowed corner that marked his Apparition Point. "We'll Apparate there – it's not far, close to the Wizarding Courts of Law in Diagon Alley, and Apparating makes more sense than Floo. I'll Side-Along you."

The Wizengamot was an imposing building, with grim, dark stone reaching up to the sky in two square towers, joined in the middle by a squat, heavily carved, domed building with wide, arched windows in the middle. A dozen wide, low-lying steps spilled out from a double set of wooden doors, themselves shadowed in an arch, with symbols that Neal didn't recognize on both sides of the heavy, black doors – something that looked like an M, bisected in the middle by a wand, with the two feet of the letter resting on a set of scales. He noticed two stars, dotting the bottom of the insignia, as he followed Sirius inside the building.

Inside, it was all dark, carved granite, veined with shimmering lines of silver and gold. The same symbol kept cropping up, throughout the huge, echoing, nearly empty floor, over and over again – glowing faintly on the floor, repeated over and over again on the walls. There were low benches resting along the edges of the floor, some of them occupied by people, talking in hushed voices. The ceilings were too high, and the air too still, too silent. Neal couldn't help but rest one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw – he wished he had had the foresight, as his brother Will did, to train himself to use his wand in his non-dominant hand so that he could wield both at the same time. He wondered if it might not be too late for that, now.

Crossing that giant, glossy floor felt like walking over a dark, bottomless pool, lit only by the skylights in the dome – one central circle, shining a spotlight onto the centre of the floor, and twelve long rectangular slits like a clock. Sirius didn't even seem to notice, making a beeline as he was for the wide doors on the other end. There was a wizard guarding the doors, tall, but with sloped shoulders and a protruding beer belly. "Lord Black," the wizard nodded in recognition, but then he turned to Neal. "And you are…?"

"Lord Nealan Yuanren Queenscove," Sirius replied for him, his voice haughty. "He claimed his title earlier this summer – the announcement was on the first of September in the _Daily Prophet_, and there have been no challengers. Let us pass."

The wizard hesitated, looking Neal over nervously. On one hand, offending a noble was not an intelligent thing to do, and he wasn't being paid to ask questions of his superiors, but on the other, this was completely out of the ordinary and he _was_ being paid to provide nominal protection to the members of the Wizengamot. His eyes lingered on Neal's unorthodox dress, on the sword belted at his waist, at Neal's hand on the hilt of his blade. "Let me see the notice, then."

Sirius pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet from September the first, already open to the Announcements page. Blake had been fastidious in following the etiquette for a new claim, so Neal knew that all the formalities had been followed, and then some. The wizard examined the paper, reading the notice, then he took another long, lingering look at Neal.

"I assure you this is the Lord Queenscove," Sirius said, his voice now betraying a hint of annoyance. "As you can see, the usual protocol for claiming a title has been completed – the advertisement was done in the _Daily_ _Prophet_, more than ten days in advance of the sitting. Do let us pass, Stokes."

The wizard bit his lip, then he seemed to make a snap decision. "Without the sword, then. No weapons in the Wizengamot."

Neal raised an eyebrow, aiming for the same haughty, annoyed tone that Sirius had achieved. His words came out slower, more considering, though there was an edge behind them. "Do you strip members of the Wizengamot of their wands, as well? The Lord Black had not informed me."

"No," the wizard blustered, flushing suddenly. "But a wand is, it's different. It's a fundamental right, but your sword—"

"As a traditional heirloom-caster, my sword _is_ my wand." Neal glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest. It wouldn't work, anyway – Neal was fully bonded to his heirloom, and he could not be parted from it. That was the primary advantage of heirloom-casting over wand use, and the main reason why the powerful Chinese Auror Corps was still more than eighty-percent heirloom-casters. Wands could be broken, and a wand-user could be disarmed, but once bonded, an heirloom could not be broken or separated from its user.

"I don't know about that," the wizard said, frowning in reply, skeptical. "I've never heard of such a thing. Leave your sword, Lord Queenscove, and you may pass."

All Neal wanted to do was make a point, and there were people behind him, now. He sighed theatrically, a noble Lord who was being asked completely unreasonable things and sent his sword into non-being with a practiced flick of his hand. Stokes let them pass and, not even five steps past him, with another practiced gesture, Neal retrieved it and sheathed it back at his waist. There were murmurs from the room, but Neal ignored them. He was an heirloom-caster, and that much should have been obvious from his name, from his dress, from his weapon itself.

"My lord Queenscove, it is good to see you." Lord Shafiq greeted him with a short bow that Neal politely returned, before heading towards the section marked for Book of Gold members. That section was by far the sparsest – many seats sat dark, and their names were dimmed. Presumably, those seats were for noble families whose lines had fully died out, or who hadn't had anyone claim their titles. There, to the far left, Neal could make out his own seat – the golden letters spelling out _Queenscove_, sitting beside the seat glowing _Black_. The Black seat was next to one that read _Peverell_, since, as Neal understood it, Sirius was currently holding the Lord Peverell's proxy. Farther down, he could see the Ollivander and Longbottom seats, with the Lord Ollivander and Lady Longbottom already present and talking. There were a few other names, in that section, all bunched together, names that Neal vaguely recognized but who hadn't responded to his invitation.

There were dozens of seats, of names, below his row, with names reading _Malfoy, Parkinson, Lestrange, Crouch, _or _Greengrass_, just to name a few. He ignored the whispers that surrounded him as he marched, unseeing, across the floor to the gold section and began taking the long stairs to his own seat, a few steps behind Sirius. The Lord Malfoy, a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, white-blonde hair, stood, stepping in front of him and blocking the steps, looming over him.

"And you are…?" His voice was cool, icy.

"Nealan Yuanren Queenscove," Neal replied, equally cold. _Hold your head high_, he heard his mother's voice echoing in his head. The Lord Malfoy might be one of the most powerful nobles in Wizarding Britain, but Wizarding Britain was only one small country in the wider world, he reminded himself. The Lord Malfoy was no one at all in the world Neal came from – his mother would laugh if Neal was cowed by him, and it would be worse than the Triwizard Tournament debacle. "I am the Lord Queenscove. Let me pass, please."

"When was your claim issued?" Lord Malfoy demanded, one hand on a walking stick. Neal's blade hummed under his hand; he would be damned if Malfoy wasn't hiding his wand or a blade within his stick. Neal casually slid his hand down, holding his blade just under the hilt, the first position before a draw. If there was to be combat, he generally preferred his blade.

"September the first, in the Announcements of the _Daily Prophet_, as per protocol." Neal caught Sirius' eye; Archie's father had paused, a few steps above the Lord Malfoy. "Sirius, if you wouldn't mind…?"

"Not at all," Sirius said, pulling out the newspaper once more and handing it to the Lord Malfoy. "There was also an interview, Lucius, in _Bridge_ a week ago – the time for challenges is past. His seat is lit, and he has the right, and the obligation, to attend."

The other man curled his lip in disgust at the mention of _Bridge_, but he looked down to examine the _Daily Prophet _announcement carefully. Neal tapped one foot in apparent annoyance – the point of the formal announcement was for the other nobility to raise their objections, generally through a challenge. The fact that no one had done so, or that no one had paid attention to the Announcements section of the _Daily Prophet _on September the first_, _that wasn't his problem. A minute passed, then two, and Neal sighed.

"I assure you, Lucius, I have already checked the Book of Gold," Sirius added, his voice a little impatient. "He's in it – the thirty-fifth Lord of Queenscove. Let's just get on with the sittings."

The Lord Malfoy looked up from the _Prophet_, frowning sternly at Neal. Even as he was looking at Neal, his words were clearly intended for Sirius. "You can _hardly_ expect that one vote will make a difference to the proceedings today, Sirius. I will let it go for now, but you can rest assured that I will be looking into _Queenscove_ farther." He shoved the copy of the _Prophet_ into Neal's chest, turning to sit back in his own seat.

If Neal hadn't been subtly set for some sort of action, he would have stumbled. Instead, he took the paper in hand and continued his way up the steps, breathing slowly through his nose. He privately resolved to tighten the security on his Floo. _Again_. Was it even worth having the Floo? It was a long hike over his grounds to his castle, sure, but balancing security and the convenience of the Floo…

"What does that mean, Lucius?" Sirius' voice was sharp, if low. "The proceedings today?"

The Lord Malfoy ignored him, and Sirius made a low noise like a growl in the back of his throat.

"I hate it when they blindside us," Sirius muttered lowly to Neal, as they took their own seats. "I have a bad feeling about this, and I _hate_ not knowing what's coming."

Neal nodded, not knowing how else to react, and settled into his first day in the Wizengamot. From his seat, the highest of the occupied seats in his section, he had a clear view of both the section for the Book of Silver families, to his right, and across from him the Book of Copper families. Both sections were larger in number than his, though that was likely only because they had fewer empty seats – he supposed that, since the Book of Gold families were the oldest, more of them had died out than the others. There were only perhaps thirty lit seats in his section, while there were probably fifty or so in the Silver section, and maybe seventy-five in the Copper. The lit names, too, reflected the degree of nobility – in his section, names glowed a bright gold, while the Silver section gleamed silver and the Copper names were a burnished copper.

In the middle of the Silver section, Neal picked out the name _Riddle _glowing bright in centre of a large group of nobles, all talking quietly amongst themselves. He studied the mage – from across the room, he doubted the man would notice. The Lord Riddle was middle-aged, with piercing blue-grey eyes and a strong, square jawline, streaks of grey at his temples. He exuded a sense of power, of authority, and the people around him uniformly deferred to him.

Blake had said that there were some oddities about the Lord Riddle's title and its provenance – like Queenscove, it was thought to be a dead house, and Lord Riddle had apparently resurrected it. The problem was, if anyone did any research, the name Riddle hadn't appeared _ever_ in the past. It wasn't like Neal's House, where the Lords Queenscove had been documented throughout the history books, in court records, in the annals of the proceedings of the Wizengamot, in the news of the time, for their achievements, their scandals, their idiocies. There wasn't a _single_ mention of a previous Lord Riddle, not even at times when there _should_ have been; neither prominent Riddles, nor idiot Riddles, not any Riddles at all. No engagements, no births, and no obituaries. Even if the Book of Silver named Lord Riddles through approximately 1620, the copies made and kept by many noble families didn't document a House Riddle before the 1950s.

"That could be because most copies of the Book of Silver made by noble families only documented extant lines," Blake had said, his voice even and thoughtful, "but there are other problems. There is no known Riddle manor, either now or in the records – I haven't any idea how he could have claimed title without one, and it flies in the face of the known theories. Even the families that don't have manors today _had _them previously, and it was always sensational when one was lost. However, the Lord Riddle is a powerful wizard, Lord-level – we do not ask questions. It's enough to know that he is noble, of the Book of Silver, and that he leads the SOW Party."

Ultimately, Neal supposed it didn't really matter – who cared if Riddle's noble title was somewhat suspicious? In any other country in the world, a noble title was meaningless, and obviously the Wizarding British nobility had chosen not to investigate it further, so it didn't matter at all. He moved on, to a different group of Lords and Ladies, all clustered around an elderly, grim-faced wizard with sharp blue eyes and a long, white beard.

"Lord Albus Perceval Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," Sirius said, beside him, his voice low. "The leader of the Light Families."

"You're among them?" Neal asked, keeping his voice down as well. "Blake said that you were politically Neutral, though he expected you would turn Light again."

"He was right." Sirius sighed. "With Archie being, well, Archie… it was the best thing to do. It looks like we're starting – Elder Marchbanks looks ready to begin."

Neal nodded, settling in with a sigh. He had never really had a head for politics – Will was the political one in the family, and he wouldn't be shocked if his brother was one day the official Canadian ambassador to the International Confederation of Wizards. He would have said Prime Minister of Wizarding Canada, but he didn't think that Will could be convinced to leave Tina, and he didn't think Tina would ever be swayed from her job at the International Wizarding Criminal Court.

Will would have enjoyed this, Neal thought grouchily, listening to the discussion. Blake had worried that Neal's place among them would be added by a last-minute motion to the agenda, but it seemed like no one cared enough to protest. There were several assessing glares at him from various Lords and Ladies, whom Sirius named for him – Lestrange, Carrow, Rowle, Yaxley among them, and then Neal stopped paying attention, adopting an expression of casual disinterest instead. Most of the people staring at him were members of the SOW Party, and they all seemed to have greater concerns. They were talking quietly to each other, something like a nervous energy running between them.

The proceedings of the Wizengamot were awful, ridiculously immature. Two hours in, the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot were still throwing veiled insults at each other over the attack on the Hogwarts Express, and Neal could practically feel Sirius vibrating in the seat beside him as Lord Dumbledore fielded question after question. The attack had occurred on a bridge over running water, playing havoc with the monitoring spells, and the wards over the train had been broken. They had to have someone accomplished in ward construction or curse-breaking with them for it, especially to lift the Anti-Apparition Wards, since the wards were anchored by multiple power stones. The train's Guardian, the Trolley Lady, had been somehow waylaid so that she could not come to the defense of the students, while others broke into the train itself from the roof. From there, it seemed that the attackers had been content to throw pamphlets throughout the train, before sending their vulgar skull-and-serpent symbol soaring into the sky. Since they were close to Hogsmeade Station, and the Head Girl and Head Boy had both reported, by Patronus, that the situation was stable and under control, the decision had been made to simply bring the children to school post-haste.

Lord Dumbledore was a poor position with the attack, but still managed to turn some part of it back on the Ministry, currently appointed by the SOW Party. They had had more than two weeks, they had questioned the students many times, and yet _no _progress had been made finding the perpetrators of the crime. As Neal understood it, there was virtually no effort to find the perpetrators based on anything other than the students' testimony – the words on the pamphlet _itself, _the symbol thrown into the sky,were being ignored. He drew a connection to the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, more than a year ago, and even brought up the attacks on the Triwizard Tournament, the resurrection of a new, self-described, Dark Lord.

Neal felt his ears perk in interest, a little – he had been in the room, at AIM, watching the final match when the Hogwarts team had been kidnapped, forced to a cemetery. They had all escaped, with Harry Potter having drawn attention away from her teammates as they had fled. She had then been captured, her blood used in an arcane, Dark resurrection ritual, and tortured – he hadn't been able to hear her screams, but he had _seen_ them. Her escape had been luck, skill, and a certain amount of good timing.

And yet, it seemed like over the summer, the focus had been on _her_ – on Harry Potter, revealed halfblood, and on her cousin, Archie Black. On _their_ crimes, instead of the ones committed against her. How was that, for priorities?

It seemed like Lord Dumbledore had brought the latter point up before, but he was greeted with skepticism, even a little laughter, from the SOW Party members. Whoever had interfered with the Tournament was clearly a madman with delusions of grandeur, and they would be caught in time. They weren't worth the attention that Lord Dumbledore was attempting to place on them, and there was nothing connecting the events at all. Even the pamphlets themselves had serious differences, in tone and in style, which made it all seem that much more likely that it was simply a _copycat_ crime, rather than a _pattern_. Lord Dumbledore was growing senile, seeing things that weren't there.

It was painfully aggravating, and Neal shifted, gritting his teeth. It had only been a couple hours, and he was going to need to find some way of surviving these for the foreseeable future. He would have to develop new fantasies about Yuki, or sneak in those stupid treatises on chivalry that his castle always wanted him to read (for all the good that they did, here), or maybe he would remind himself, ad nauseum, about the wonders of Montréal. Skiing at Mont Tremblant, a Styrofoam cup of hot cocoa at the bottom of the hill, a dinner of poutine piled high with smoked meat. Brisk air on his face as he skated, as he joined his siblings in a casual game of pick-up hockey, not that any of them were especially good but it was a good excuse to plow into them and knock them over, for them to slide into the edges of the rink. A warm winter's evening, lounging in front of the fireplace at home, surrounded by his family while they argued in three different languages at once.

Eventually, the topic was shelved – it would be up to Madam Umbridge, currently stationed at Hogwarts, to continue the investigation as she saw fit, and an update would be provided to the Wizengamot before the next sittings in October. They moved onto legislation, and Madam Marchbanks called Lord Riddle to the floor.

Neal felt Sirius stiffen, beside him.

"Good afternoon, Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot," the statesman said, a broad smile coming across his face. Neal felt chills going down his spine – knowing what he did about the man and his political stances, he couldn't imagine that this was a _good_ sign. "Today, I have the pleasure of introducing you to a piece of legislation that we and the Save Our World Party have been working on for many years: The Marriage Law."

XXX

AIM was a breath of fresh air. The late summer sun, beaming into the Pettingill Hall common room, was warm, and it was amazing being surrounded again by Healing books, Hermione and John by his side. There was theatre, there were auditions – AIM had always been a place where Archie could be himself, more than anywhere else, and even if home wasn't all that different now, AIM would always be special to him. The only difference now was that it was _better_ – he wasn't _Harry Potter_ anymore, he was _Arcturus Rigel Black_. The first time Archie saw his dorm room door, on the fourth floor of Pettingill Hall, he nearly burst into tears.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, glancing quizzically from Archie's face to his bedroom door. It was the same as every other door along the hallway – the same plain white, with a chalkboard set into it for decoration.

"It has _my name_ on it," Archie sniffled, pointing at the round, white cursive. The big, round, simple A, the B with the extra little line at the top. "_Archie Black_. It says my name on it, Hermione!"

Hermione looked at the placard, then at Archie, and there was a moment where it seemed like she didn't know what to say. Eventually, she just sighed, patted him on the back, and went to unpack in her own room.

His room was felt a little smaller than before, but on reflection, it was only that his wardrobe was bigger. That was good, because he had two new sets of Healer's robes for his weekly rotations at the teaching hospital, where he would be learning how to take medical histories, interview patients, triage, and where he would be shadowing fully licensed Healers as they went about their duties. His room also now came equipped with _two _bookshelves, instead of just one, and with Archie's much reduced library since the Ministry raid, he was actually able to display all of his books properly. His classes were pretty much _all_ Healing focused, now, and he couldn't imagine anything better.

There was a mysterious, bulky package on his desk when he arrived. He picked it up, eyeing it curiously, and a tiny vial of potion fell out. He held it up to the light, peering at it – it was an odd colour, grey, and some parts of it looked like it had congealed or separated. He shook it, and little dark flakes rose from the bottom of the vial, then settled again. Potions didn't do that, he didn't think – not complete ones, anyway. Harry always said that one of the best ways to tell when a potion was complete was that all the constituent parts would have melded into one, homogenous whole. He didn't recognize it, but then, that didn't mean much. He was good at Potions, but he wasn't Harry.

He shook his head, putting down the vial in favour of picking up the letter it had come with. He half expected that it was from Harry (who else would be sending him random, possibly incomplete potions?), but raised an eyebrow when he saw the formal, noble handwriting that had never been trained into him or Harry. The first page was relatively short, and a quick riffle through the rest of the package showed that the rest of it was copies of other correspondence, which didn't seem to be intended for him. He flipped back to the first page, hoping that it would have some answers.

_Potter, _he read. _I find myself quite unsurprised to learn that you've apparently been committing blood identity theft for years to go to Hogwarts. While I can't say that this is a good life choice, you have my appreciation for your sheer nerves in doing such a thing._

_I understand that you recently escaped the clutches of Britain's new resident Dark Lord. I write to warn you, even though it is very much against my sensibilities to do so. This Lord Voldemort is no Lord Riddle and will not be content to take the political route; he wants a revolution, probably in blood. I suspect that, since you have so recently escaped his attentions, he will probably be searching for you. I enclose, for your edification, a set of letters my mother had in her possession. My mother is, I suspect, his torture expert. Do with it what you will. _

_While it shocks me to be writing this, please don't let yourself be tortured into insanity. I enclose also a sample of something I've been working on for some time – if you take it before taking Cruciatus, your mind will be more resilient to its effects. I assume that you can reverse-engineer it, but if not, you'll have to meet me in person and beg me for the full recipe. It is not a finished product, though, as I never did enough tests on it to demonstrate how effective it might be. _

It was signed Caelum Lestrange, and Archie's eyebrow went up even higher. Both of his eyebrows, really, since he could actually only raise one eyebrow so high. He supposed that Harry and Lestrange were friends, of a sort – they had done their Potions Guild internships together, and there was that incident at the third year SOW Party Gala when Harry had put him in his place. But after their last year, when he had had to interrupt their dance because Harry was trying to stomp all over his feet, he hadn't been sure. And, given that Lestrange apparently developed and _tested_ a torture-insulation potion, Archie would _prefer _that Harry wasn't friendly with him, yet... He hesitated, looking through the letter again, flipping through the other papers Lestrange had sent.

It was meant for Harry, but it was important for Dad to know, too, and for Neal and for everyone back in Britain. And it obviously wasn't a _private_ letter – Lestrange _had_ sent it to him, and how could Archie have known to send it on to Harry without opening it and reading it? And knowing what it said, how could Archie _not_ act on it?

And he _would_ send on a copy with Harry, along with the vial, as soon as he had a way of doing so. He didn't think the vial would be interesting to anyone except Harry, nor would anyone else be able to work out whatever Lestrange had done. He would only take a copy of the information and send it on to Dad and Aldon and everyone in Britain. He couldn't use the regular owl post, though – there was a good chance that dad's post was being monitored, so that wouldn't work. He would use the No-Maj post and send it to Christie Blake, Aldon's mum, instead, and ask Aldon to pass it on. There would probably be time to slip out to town after classes at the end of the week, or, in the worst case scenario, he could always take the school shuttle on the weekend.

Things were a little different, being _Archie Black_ at school, instead of _Harry Potter_. At first, some of his classmates stared at him, even though they had to know what he looked like, after last year. Once he had dropped his disguise in that awful tournament final, he had never put it back on. Still, with it only being a week or so before school ended and exams began, most of his classmates probably hadn't gotten used to it, not unless they were his friends. A few of his classmates, even a few of his professors, stumbled over his name, but that would work itself out, in time.

His interview in _Bridge_ sounded _fantastic_, when Hermione finally managed to slip him a copy. The paper _had_ technically come out the day that they were heading back to America, but he hadn't had the chance to grab a copy before going to Heathrow. It had his favourite picture of himself, bracketed by John on one side and Neal on the other, instead of the formal pictures of himself alone. His words sounded good, too – Hermione and Aldon had really edited him to sound smart, and even if they were his words, there was something more to them.

The attack on the Hogwarts Express hit the news in America on the third of September, a minor article in the _American Standard _that sent Hermione into a tizzy.

"The Ministry condemned the attack," she said, her mouth a thin, drawn line. "But based on the _Prophet_, they're blowing it up a lot. On one hand, it's good that they aren't trying to cover it up, but the SOW Party is trying to get something from this, I would swear it. They're using this to attack Lord Dumbledore's credibility, which already shot after the Rigel Black Scandal."

Archie let out a worried, slightly guilty sigh. "And my trial didn't help, did it?"

Hermione looked at him, head tilted, and her eyes softened a little. "No, not really. You did the best you could, Archie – there really were no better options. It was gone the minute the ruse was up, and there wasn't really anything you could have done."

Archie joined some of her BSA meetings, this year – only her Advocacy and Policy Committee meetings, though, since he didn't need any mentorship and he already had a social group. He met Sally Hopkins, their British yearmate, for almost the first time, as well as a few of Hermione's other friends: halfblood Oliver Kepnes, newblood Erica McRae, newblood Molly O'Dea. Truth be told, he barely paid attention during these meetings – he mainly enjoyed watching _Hermione. _Hermione knew how to run a meeting, and there was something so _attractive_ about listening to her run through an agenda, her clear voice cutting through all the nonsense.

Or maybe Archie was just an idiot in love, because when he tried to explain it to John, John had just shot him a look of helpless amusement.

"Do you also have a thing for her when she's wearing her power suit?" John ventured, stifling a laugh. "Because, like… you have been telling me about her _bringing motions for approval_ for the last ten minutes."

Archie flushed. He did, in fact, also like Hermione very much in her navy-blue suit.

"Competence kink," John snorted, then his shoulders started shaking, and then he gave up and laughed until he cried.

Archie auditioned for _Grease_, doing well enough to make the final callback for Danny Zuko, only to lose against Evin Larse over the _stupid_ chemistry test again. If Hermione would only join theatre, he was sure that he could blow the chemistry test out of the water, but his voice just hadn't meshed well with any of the Sandy candidates. Sandy went to Thea McKinnon, who had spent half her summer in vocal training and could belt her lines as powerfully as Evin, now. Archie ended up with Kenickie, which… well, pregnancy subplot or not, he got to sing _Greased Lightning_ on a stage, so there was that.

It was a week and a half after classes started, on his way back from his very first round of clinical rotations, that he walked into his room a saw a _toucan_ on his desk. The bird looked at him, and clapped its giant, yellow beak a couple times, a demand in its beady red-rimmed eyes. Archie tilted his head, reaching for the Owl Treats that he kept around – were toucans carnivorous? He didn't think so. He offered one anyway, and the bird peered closely at it before turning around and flipping its tail feathers at him.

He would have to figure out what toucans ate, he supposed, then he saw the sheet of paper on his desk. It was a little ragged and heavily spotted, but he would recognize Harry's handwriting anywhere. He leapt for it, a bright grin spreading across his face. It had been so _long_ since he had last heard from her!

_Don't worry, I'm fine, _she started, and Archie laughed in delight, because that was how she always started her letters. _I'm glad to see that you survived the summer – I don't get a lot of news, here, but I'm really sorry you were convicted in my absence, and I'm sorry you lost your Metamorphmagus gift. I wish you hadn't gone back at all._

It wasn't the _I told you so_ that he had half been expecting from her, and Archie breathed a small sigh of relief. She had left it at her own feelings, and Archie could only be happy with that, especially because she probably didn't know about the decision that he _had_ gotten. If she had, she would understand why he did it, and why he didn't regret it, but it was hard to understand without that context. He _was_ found guilty, and he _had_ lost a part of his magic. To most mages, those would have been serious, crippling blows.

_I'm glad you're back in America, if only because I'll be able to write to you more now that you're out of Britain. I'm still not able to tell you where I am, or too much information, which must be frustrating, but suffice it to say I'm getting a whole new experience in potions-brewing! There are so many techniques that aren't taught in school, and I'm very fortunate to have found myself in a place where I can keep learning. I'm really enjoying myself, Archie – it feels awful to say that, when I know you've had such a hard summer, but it's fascinating and I really hope I can share it with you, one day._

Archie couldn't help but burst into laughter, again. That was how he had felt for the first few years of his life at AIM – somehow guilty for enjoying himself, when he knew that Harry was suffering at Hogwarts! It was odd, being on the other side, and also realizing that this must have been how _Harry_ would have felt. Hogwarts had always been worth it to her, even if Archie couldn't have understood it, just as Archie's choices here and now were worth it to him. Maybe he could have told her, all along, about AIM – from the opposite perspective, the fact that Harry was enjoying herself only made him feel happy for her, not resentful for her choices.

Well, he lived, and he learned. There was no use being sorry for it now, but he resolved to show her everything when she came back, as soon as he could. Maybe he would start by sending her books _now_, some of his favourites. That was a _fantastic_ idea, on further thought – what should he send her? He wished he had his old library, the one that the Aurors had confiscated, but despite Percy's best efforts, he had never gotten anything back from them.

_My friend, the toucan, will need a day to rest, but he'll carry a message back to me, if you want. Would you feed him? He eats fruit, mainly, and I promised him that you would feed him new, interesting North American fruits if he carried my letter to you. At least a few kinds, please, otherwise I might not be able to convince him to carry messages for me again!_

_I miss you, and give my love to Mum and Dad, and Addy and Sirius and Remus, if you can. Harry._

Fortunately, Archie had already made a copy of Lestrange's letters for Aldon and Dad, but he hadn't gotten around to sending it yet, since he still needed to get into town for the No-Maj post office. One of the worst parts about Neal having graduated was that he no longer had a convenient upper-year friend to ask to take him to town, so it was either the student shuttle, or he would have to ask one of John's friends. Faleron had a car, he thought. Archie would just slide Harry's letter, too, into the No-Maj post for Aldon to pass on to Dad.

_Harry, _he wrote the next day, the toucan having been satisfied with the selection of apples, pears, oranges, peaches, dates, bananas and blueberries that he had managed to swipe from the dining hall. _It's great to hear from you! _

His letter was rather longer than any he had written before, telling her all about his summer, about Justice's decision, about his first few weeks at AIM. He told her about all the things he hadn't before – about movies he had seen, the books he had read, the theatre he had been working on. He didn't worry about whether she would understand it, anymore – she either would, or she wouldn't, and if she didn't, she could always ask him. He told her about _Bridge_, telling her to keep an eye out for it and to try to read it, if she could – he told her about his hopes, for wider representation, for a world where people could make their own way, on their own merit, making their own choices for self-determination. He slipped in a copy of Martin Luther King Jr.'s writings, figuring he could always get another copy, and then he capped it all off with a short note about Justice's words.

_Justice said that she would have struck the law, if it was you in front of her instead of me. If you want to go back, you can – if they charge you, Aldon can invoke Justice for your trial. It's a risk, but without blood identity theft, the rest of your charges are pretty minor, or there are other defenses for them (like self-defence, to be super obvious!). _

He paused for a minute, eyeing his words carefully. While having the law be struck would be wonderful, not just for him but for all newbloods and halfbloods, he didn't want to put any pressure on her to do it. He wanted her to do it, of course he did, but he wanted her to do it because it was her own choice to do it. If he wanted Harry to respect his decisions, then he absolutely had to respect hers.

He hesitated, then he added one more line to that paragraph: _It's up to you. Your risk to take, your choice to make._

He signed off, packaged it all up and offered it to the toucan, who gave him a very long-suffering kind of look.

"I fed you every kind of fruit in the dining hall, I'll have you know," he informed it sternly.

The toucan clapped its beak again, once, before it begrudgingly allowed Archie to tie the package to it and leapt out the window, falling about six feet in the air before the wind caught its wings. Archie watched it wheel upwards, finding a couple updrafts, before it turned and soared south.

Archie was busier at AIM than he had ever been before. It wasn't just his classes, which were becoming more interesting day by day, it was managing them with his new rotations at the teaching hospital, which were _amazing_ and let him work with _real patients_. He loved it – he loved chatting with patients, making them feel comfortable as he took their medical histories, he loved shadowing Healers around the hospital as they went about their duties, he loved helping to develop treatment plans. Sometimes, he even had John with him on rotations, since John had opted for Emergency Healing and therefore was required to do rotations with every department, to get a general background in every area and to know when to refer cases to each area. He looked forward to every Friday, his assigned rotation day.

He had rehearsals three times a week, he went to Hermione's BSA meetings sometimes, and on top of that, writing for a newspaper was _hard_. It was just a once a week column, and he had a _fun_ column about No-Maj culture! How hard could it be, he had thought, to produce seven hundred and fifty words per week on a recent No-Maj movie or book?

Very hard, it turned out, because he wanted to do a good job of it. He couldn't just give everything five stars out of five, much as he wanted to, because that wasn't very helpful, and gushing would get old fast. Reading the book, or watching the movie, that was only the _fun_ part. Next, Archie had to _think_ about the book or the movie, and he had to do it _critically_, and sometimes he found that he didn't like the book or movie so much afterwards. He split them evenly – a movie review one week, and a book review the next. _Babe, _then the week after, a book by a British author, _Northern Lights, _which had been repackaged as _The Golden Compass _in America. _The Prophecy_, a terrifying horror film in which review Archie confessed that he was a cowardly lion and didn't like horror films at all, followed by_ The Prestige_, another British fantasy novel that had kept him awake thinking for far too many hours at night.

Writing the reviews always took an evening or two, but getting them into _Bridge_ headquarters was an adventure all its own. They didn't have time for No-Maj post, which took a week to get over the Atlantic, or for owl post, which took almost the same amount of time, depending on owl. Their news needed to be _current_, and with the word count of what needed to go in, telephone transcription just wasn't feasible, not that Archie had a working phone at AIM anyway. The answer was, apparently, _the internet_.

Archie had an _email account _now. Every Saturday, he and Hermione either took the shuttle into town, or they caught a ride in with someone. Both of them would head for the public library, sign up for an hour with the computer, and type out their reports to send back to Britain by email. Derrick, or whoever he had gotten to help him with _Bridge_, had clearly set up in the No-Maj world, where No-Maj electronics worked. Email correspondence was a _beautiful_ thing, even if it took him most of the first Saturday just to figure out how to type!

He tried to plan ahead, so that he could file two reports on a Saturday, one for a movie and one for a book, but Hermione wasn't so lucky. Her news, as an international political correspondent, had to be _current_, so it seemed like she was always working, she always had to go into town to send in a new report, she always had something else to do. Archie went along with her, usually, and somehow wheedled dates out of her on Saturdays after their reports were sent in. Unlike Archie, Hermione actually knew how to type, so at least typing up her reports didn't take more than a half-hour or so.

It was about three weeks before he heard back from Harry, with the same toucan. It was a shorter message, but then, Harry wasn't given to long correspondences – she had always been a terrible penfriend.

_Archie,_ he read. _I am very glad to hear from you too, and whatever else might have happened, I'm happy to hear you sounding like you, if that makes any sense. I really enjoyed your letter, and I'm looking forward to reading the book you sent me, even if I don't think I can really appreciate it without the context._

_For your last point, I don't think I can go back, not yet at least. There are the charges, and they are one thing, but there is also Voldemort, the so-called Dark Lord who resurrected himself with my blood in the Tournament. I'm not sure how much you remember about my second year, the basilisk? I'm fairly certain that Voldemort is the same fragment of memory who tried to possess me then, so he (it?) has been fixated on me ever since. If anything, based on Lestrange's letter, he is likely worse about me, now. I did leave my knife in his gut. I'd be a sitting duck, waiting for trial, so I don't think I can. In addition, I'm not sure how much use one law is - it's only one law, and Riddle doesn't need the law anymore, because pureblood prejudice is rooted so deep into our culture now. I'm sorry. _

_There'll be an opportunity for me to move onto somewhere new in a couple weeks, so I'm very excited! I have two dozen new ingredients in my bag to experiment with right now, and soon I'm going to need a new bag. I won't tell you where, in case this falls into wrong hands, but look for my next "owl"!_

Archie smiled – he hadn't really, he thought, expected anything different, and Harry made a fair point. He personally thought at symbolic victories were important too, but he hadn't connected Lestrange's letter to her current situation, and anyway, it was good for her to be out in the world! He scrawled a reply to that effect, then went to get Harry's toucan friend more fruit from the dining hall.

By mid-October, Archie had finally gotten into a rhythm. There were classes, every weekday, with rotations on Friday afternoons. There were rehearsals, Monday, Tuesday and Thursdays. There were Hermione's BSA meetings, here and there when he could make it out, and in between everything else there were movies to see, books to read, and reviews to write. There were letters from Dad, though they tended to be pretty light since Archie thought their owl post was still being monitored, but Archie loved writing back to him anyway. He kept his own letters about Hermione, about Healing, about theatre – Dad could read his reviews in _Bridge_ for movie and book news!

He was hovering over a notebook, one Wednesday evening towards the end of October, when Hermione barrelled into his bedroom. Archie had barely gotten his door open before she was inside, stewing and shoving a sheet of paper under his nose.

"Hello to you too, dear. What's up?" Archie said with a bit of a grin, taking the sheet of paper from her. He was always happy to see Hermione, and he didn't see her anywhere near as often as he would have liked.

"It passed, Archie," Hermione said, pushing past him into his dorm room and throwing herself on his bed. Her voice was thick with tears. Angry ones, Archie suspected. She grabbed a corner of Archie's blanket and used it to wipe her eyes. "The Marriage Law. It passed third reading this morning."

"_What_?" Archie looked down at the paper she had shoved at him, skimming it quickly. It was messy, a disjointed scrawl from someone taking notes on the side of a telephone booth – not Hermione, another one of her friends. Halfbloods required to marry purebloods. Marriages between halfbloods or between halfbloods and Muggleborns not to be recognized as legitimate. Halfbloods may not decline a formal offer of marriage with a pureblood. Shit.

He stepped backwards, reaching numbly for his desk chair and sinking into it. He had known that it had passed the first reading, and the second reading too, Dad having written him both times, but on some level, he had never _really_ expected it to pass. It was too wide-reaching, such a huge violation on people's rights, and Dad had always said that as long as the Light families held strong, it wouldn't pass.

Though, he supposed Dad hadn't said so recently.

"Between the Rigel Black Scandal and the attack on the Hogwarts Express, Lord Dumbledore couldn't hold his faction together for the votes." Hermione sniffed, running one hand through her messy curls. "See, this is the problem with having your political system be a hereditary oligarchy! Almost none of the Wizengamot are halfbloods, so it doesn't affect them or their families directly. In fact, it _favours_ them – they can now force someone to marry family members whom they worry won't be able to marry off otherwise. It's _ripe_ for abuse."

"But why? Why now?" Archie couldn't help but ask, his eyebrows furrowing. Harry was safe, since was outside the country and she was protected by their on-paper betrothal. But there were others: Derrick, Saoirse. Sean. Aldon."What is the _point?"_

"Other than consolidating power into pureblood hands and the money grab when halfbloods die and their estates escheat to the Ministry because they have no legitimate heirs?" Hermione laughed, a bitter sound. "My guess is, population sustainability. They think they're dying out, Arch – with the Fade, their official birthrate is about 1.4 per couple. It's artificially depressed, since they don't recognize illegitimate births or magical-Muggle pairings; if you include in the undocumented communities the birthrate is estimated to be around 2.2, which is really quite healthy. But the SOW Party doesn't want to include _those_ kinds of people, of course."

Archie shook his head, the corners of his lips turning down as he tried to think it through. Hermione was probably right, and he supposed it didn't really matter _why _they had done it. Now that the law was in place, they would need a three-quarters majority to repeal it, he remembered.

That was so many votes. The Light faction had never managed to pull more than about forty percent of the Wizengamot. _Never_. He swallowed, trying to focus. "I don't – I don't understand. How could this happen?"

Hermione shook her head, taking a trembling breath. "I don't know. I'm waiting for the vote count, still – Derrick said he would email me a vote count once he hears from Neal, and of course _Bridge_ will publish them, but until them we won't know who voted for or against."

Archie nodded, biting his lip. He was sure that Dad would let him know, as would Neal. But the impact of the law … he didn't even know. His brain just couldn't encompass it, yet. "What do we do next? How do we _stop_ this, fix it, repeal it?"

There was a long moment of silence, and a deep sigh as Hermione sat up, rubbing her eyes dry. Archie didn't comment – Hermione hated crying, and she hated it more if anyone commented on it. "We keep fighting it, Arch. We just keep on fighting."

Both MACUSA and the ICW released condemnation statements against Wizarding Britain that week. Wizarding Canada and Australia formally put a full trade embargo on all imports from and exports to Wizarding Britain, cutting the supplies of many needed potions ingredients, wandwoods, and other magical items. Wizarding Germany opened a new blood refugee program for British halfblood mages being forced into marriage, which was quickly duplicated by the Wizarding Nordic Union. Even Wizarding France, usually one of the more conservative European countries, began arguing over new, greatly increased, taxes on homes owned by "non-resident" wizarding families, an indirect measure targeting the wealthiest British magical families who still had vacation homes in France – the Malfoys, the Lestranges, the Bulstrodes, the Rosiers, and the Puceys among them.

XXX

The Marriage Law was not good.

That much Aldon could say, reading both the report in the _Daily Prophet_ and in _Bridge_, which included the lists of who had voted for and against the measure, each time. Queenscove had been utterly useless for that – indeed, the man had shot him a completely bewildered look when Aldon had asked.

"You can't _seriously_ expect me to remember like, a hundred names from a _five-minute vote_, can you?" The emerald-eyed man blinked at him, opened-mouthed, leaning back and perching, almost, on the table in the great hall, where he had come as soon as Aldon had Flooed in.

"You had a whole five minutes – what were you doing instead?" Aldon had retorted, crossing his arms. Queenscove had his strengths, but _common sense_ was not one of them. He was smart, learning all the names and backgrounds he needed quickly, but sometimes, things that just seemed _logical _to Aldon simply didn't occur to him. "And all you had to do was note the names of the dissenters – that would only be, what, forty-five names?"

Queenscove glared at him. "That's a lot of names, Blake."

Aldon had sighed and given up. He would find out with everyone else, but at least a few of Dumbledore's allies had to have turned on him for that vote, as well as all the Neutrals, for it to pass.

It was the Longbottoms, just as it had been in 1981. There were also the Ollivanders, and three other families – one of the Book of Silver, two of the Book of Copper. All of them had Heirs who were either unmarried or whom they worried about marrying well – Neville Longbottom was a sweet boy, second in line to the family seat, and he worked hard, but Aldon understood why the Longbottoms worried. Heir Ollivander was well past the age when most Heirs were expected to marry, and he had a train of six or seven failed engagements, all of them having the other party breaking it off. Aldon could name people who had had more, including his own parents, but they had all involved _that _person breaking it off, not the other side. And, while Lord and Lady Rosier had been the poster couple for the success of a later marriage, look at how that had turned out?

Aldon took copious notes, in the black notebook sealed with his blood in which he now kept nearly everything. It wasn't just information on the Wizengamot and on their own allies – there was also a set of curious letters that Archie had mailed him in the Muggle post, that he hadn't quite decided what to do with yet, a copy of a tract that had been thrown on the Hogwarts Express, correspondence from a few friends at Hogwarts who were still writing him.

Aldon would be a target for the Marriage Law, he knew. He was, disowned or not, still a blood noble, an illegitimate castoff from an otherwise legitimate family. As a blood noble, he still had some quasi-noble status, even if it wasn't a particularly good one; there were certain noble privileges that he still had, certain rituals that he could still perform. He could still claim a noble manor, he could still call a formal duel of honour, and he could still demand a trial by Justice Incarnate. His mother had insisted that he memorize the list of privileges of blood nobles as a child, not that he had known why.

He was also raised as a pureblood and, dare he say it, he was relatively good-looking. He was known to be intelligent, and he was, under his former name and status, well-known in the nobility. He was well-connected, and there would always be hope that, if he married and was publicly considered pure, the Rosiers might take him back and the other family would win nobility in the bargain. Before, as a pureblood Heir, he had been sought after – now, as a public halfblood _who could not refuse_, he would only be more so.

At one time, he suspected he would have viewed this as an opportunity. Arranged marriages were par for the course for Wizarding nobility, and Aldon had always expected to marry someone tolerable through an appropriate arrangement that brought benefits to both families. In that light, this law was no different – even if he could not _refuse_, he expected he would have enough offers that he would be able to play them off each other, securing a tolerable spouse and his pureblood status back in one fell swoop. If he was lucky, that faceless family might even have money, and from there, he was sure he would be able to angle for other things. A prominent position in the Ministry. Ample business as a consultant. Eventually, reinstatement as the Rosier Heir. Before this summer, Aldon would have settled.

There was just one problem with that.

Long, dark hair, not a strand out of place. Perfectly groomed eyebrows, framing large, dark eyes that always seemed considering, an upturned nose, and a small, rose-petal mouth. A delicate, fragile, frame, often curled into something small, catlike – when she sat, she would tuck her legs under her, or pull them up to her chest. Tiny hands, their nails decorated with silver and pink flowers, wrapped around a mug, a textbook, a pencil decorated with bears. Her feet, her toenails painted a matching shade of pink to her fingers, in elegant, pretty heels that still only brought the top of her head level with Aldon's eyes.

She danced. He had only seen her dance once, but that one time… It had been something he had never seen before, something he had never had the imagination to picture. It was music turned into movement, music turned alive, and the magic she had drawn in the air had pulled everything together, given the piece body and soul. He thought that she carried a little bit of music with her wherever she went – there was a sort of grace, a musical sort of awareness, to all her movements, as if there was always a song playing somewhere in in her mind.

And her mind, her mind was something else entirely. She worked magic with numbers, her quick mind jumping through dozen steps at a time. When he would get stuck on a problem, taking probably far too long to turn to her for help, she would take one of her pencils and work it out in the span of five minutes or less, skipping at _least_ three intermediate steps that Aldon would have needed to write out. Her words in explaining it were always curt, straightforward, never more than necessary, and then she would turn away, returning to her own book.

He saw a whole new side of her, working on the ACD pitch. He saw how much love she poured into the device, how much almost desperate yearning she had in her eyes when she looked down at it. He saw the fear she had, the slight tremble in her normally graceful movements throughout the presentation day, and he saw how she wrestled with her fear and delivered a competent presentation anyway. He saw her face when Blake & Associates decided to fund her project – shock, mixed with joy, mixed with something like _validation_, and that night, he saw her smile.

When she smiled, when she laughed, it lit up her entire face. She was normally beautiful, but it was a doll-like beauty, fixed and still. When she smiled, she came alive, and her normal, usual beauty turned into something real, incandescent. Aldon sometimes thought he would do virtually anything for another one of those smiles.

He hadn't seen enough of them, over the summer. Maybe a handful – a small one in a bookstore over a physics textbook, another eating ramen that day when he was far too flustered to enjoy it, the bright, beaming, joyful one the day that Blake & Associates had agreed to partner with her. A few around John, or Archie and her friends. He wanted to see more of them – no, that wasn't right. He wanted to be the one to bring more of them on her face. He wanted her to smile that way because of things _he_ had done, gifts that _he_ had given her, he wanted her to smile like that _just for him._

She would never look twice at you that way, he tried telling himself, more than once. What have you got? No castle, not even a manor, and even if he made a decent income, between his work and what Queenscove paid him for consulting, it wasn't anything like the vast resources he had had as Aldon Rosier. He didn't have any real political power, either – his limited influence over _Bridge_, over Archie, only went so far. And he had glanced through her romances, sometimes left on a table or chair while she went to make tea – she liked knights, she liked heroes, she liked men who could pick up a weapon in her defense. Aldon was terrible at duelling.

The only problem with that was that his idiot, animal brain didn't accept that reasoning. She didn't come from Britain, it told him, so maybe she didn't care about the manor, or the money, or the political power. She thought he was good-looking – she had even said, that first day in the Muggle shop, _you clean__ up __nicely, don't you? _She thought he was intelligent, not that she had ever said so, but she never spoke to Archie, or Hermione, or even John about the ACD the way she did him. She never simplified it for him – she always just expected he would keep up with her mentally, and for the most part, he did. His idiot animal brain would bring these points up, every time he tried to talk some sense into himself.

It didn't work, because he was a fool. A stubborn one. And with the Marriage Law passed, Aldon decided that it would be best if he simply played least in sight for a while. A very long while. Having reviewed the legislation, a copy of which had made it into _Bridge_, the fortunate part was that the no-refusals clause was formatted around a _formal_ proposal of marriage, which had to be done _in person, _since he was of age. There was no real need for Aldon to cross into or through the main areas of Wizarding Britain, and besides – Aldon was _busy. _

Aldon was busier than he had ever been in his entire life, which he supposed didn't say much considering that, until this point, he had largely lived a life of frozen, paralytic leisure. He hadn't needed to work for income, it was true, but he also hadn't _enjoyed_ himself to the same extent that he was now. He liked working – he liked spending his weekends consulting with Queenscove, who was nothing if not entertaining_, _he liked plotting the steps to flipping Wizarding Britain upside down, and he liked spending most of the rest of his time working on the ACD. He liked trying to run his brain through magical theory, trying to work out how to turn the proto-runes article into a useable system for other spells, or more complex spells, helping to frame the discussion and pick what problems with the ACD that Francesca and his company would take their runs at, what new things they would try, from week to week.

It had taken them about three weeks to come to terms on the ACD project, agreeable to both her and to Blake & Associates. Percy had referred her to a solicitor in his office, a good one, and she had been separately represented through the negotiations. As it was, given the amount of risk that Blake & Associates would be taking on, as well as the amount of work they would be putting in to develop as well as fund it, they had come down on a little over two-thirds – seventy percent of the proceeds would go to Blake & Associates, while thirty would remain Francesca's interest. The documents were sent to her by Muggle airmail, unbelievably faster than owl post if one just _paid_ for express shipping, and returned in record time, then work began in earnest.

First and foremost, they had determined that they needed a test subject and a test ACD that wasn't John Kowalski. Aldon was busy conducting background research and working with Albert McEvoy, their experimental Charms researcher, to develop something to test magical frequency, and they were narrowing down on who, in the office, had a magical frequency that might resonate with a workable electromagnetic frequency. Early tests suggested that Aldon _himself_ could be a fit, and Aldon would fight tooth and nail to be the one selected, if at all possible.

At the same time, Aldon was also working directly with Francesca on the runic aspect, developing other spells that could work within the limitations of the technology that existed. While Aldon agreed that having the ACD be able to perform set sequences of spells, such as _Pertus/Stupefy,_ might be useful as an intermediate step before proceeding to a full system of magical channelling, he thought that a more useful area of expansion might be warding.

"A ward is essentially a woven set of several spells, but from a runic perspective, it launches as _one_ spell," Aldon said, in a meeting in mid-October, at noon his time but early morning for her. The communication orb they were using was _his_ orb – as both the current magical theorist and the Runes expert, it made sense for him to be the lead from Blake & Associates. "Based on your description of the microcontroller, I think we could simply put one of each proto-rune on the ACD itself and have the proto-runes flash the sequence. That would be useful while leaving the matter of a user interface for later development."

There was silence for a minute or two, and Aldon could almost picture her from across the Atlantic: legs tucked up, a notebook across her knees and a pencil in hand as her other hand rested on her comm orb, a green so pale it was almost white, beside her. "Um, but wouldn't that cut into the efficiency of the ACD? How many proto-runes would a ward need? One of the ACD's strengths is that, because it's runic, it is extremely efficient on both time and magic expended. As it stands, it doesn't even take a full second to cast _Fortis _– the spell launches at the speed of magic itself. If I am picturing your idea right, each proto-rune would have to flash in turn, and that adds an element of time..."

"We can do some testing for timing, once we have a viable test subject," Aldon replied, taking notes – almost verbatim from what she had said. He had to, because otherwise there was always the risk that he would just fall into the sound of her voice, and he would have no idea what she said. "Runically, it would depend on the number of spells woven, but for a five-spell woven ward, I would hazard a guess at about a hundred and fifty runes, but I don't imagine each proto-rune would need to be visible for more than a half-second—"

There was a rustle of paper from the other side, and Aldon could picture her narrowed brow, the unhappy look on her face. "That would be _seventy-five seconds_ to cast. Over a _minute_."

She sounded almost offended, and Aldon laughed. "Francesca, the equivalent ward with a wand would take at least five minutes to cast – I would have to cast the formation spell defining the boundaries for the ward, then I would need to add in each of the component spells, weaving them together. A minute, by ward standards, is obscenely quick."

There was silence from the orb, and Aldon thought she had let go of her connection, perhaps to write something down. But a few minutes passed, and he wished he could see her face, that he might know what she was thinking: if she was considering it, if she was unconvinced, if she was just trying to find a way to refuse.

"We could look for other ways to optimize the casting process," Aldon added, trying to sound reassuring. "Such as by formatting the pattern of proto-runes on the panel, like a computer keyboard. It doesn't need to be logical, just fast."

Another few seconds of silence, then a sigh from the other end. "I guess it's worth considering further," she murmured, her voice slow and almost resigned.

"Great," Albert cut into the discussion, and Aldon blinked because he had almost forgotten that the lean Charms researcher was there, sitting beside him for this meeting, as well as Christie. "Excellent idea, but do you think that, for the parts of the project that only involve the runes, you could have those discussions outside of the group meetings? I mean, it's all very interesting, but Aldon, you have the direct comm orb connection and it's not really relevant to our areas of work, and our time is better spent working on our pieces of the project."

Aldon paused in surprise, but Albert was right. It made sense, and he couldn't think up any principled reason why they shouldn't, even he had a niggling sense of discomfort with the idea. It wasn't as if Francesca would be _there_, in front of him, and it wasn't as though they hadn't spent time alone before, once even behind a closed door. But at the same time, that was only once, and it was in a public place, and every other time he had spent time alone with her had been with people _nearby_, the doors open, and in broad daylight. But again, it wasn't as if Francesca would actually be _there_, she would be five time zones away in America, and his discomfort sounded more unreasonable even as he thought about it.

He realized he had been silent for too long, Albert and Christie both giving him puzzled looks. He coughed, embarrassed, and reached for the communication orb. "Yes, I think that would be best," he said agreeably. "Francesca, when do you finish your classes? I can make myself available."

"Classes are done at three, but I dance until five-thirty, usually – I can be available at six, if that works for you?" Francesca's voice seemed almost hesitant, and calculating the time difference in his head, Aldon knew it would be eleven at night, by his time. That was late, very late, _improperly _late. But _she wouldn't actually be there_ with him and there wasn't any reason he shouldn't. Even work – he could always sleep in the next day and have a late start to his workday, too.

"Six at your time works," he replied, a little stiffly. And so, his evenings, too, were spent hovering over a communication orb, listening to her soft voice as they talked through the finer points of her ACD, trying to ignore the persistent fantasy of her talking to him like this in _person_, late at night, in his bedroom. Their bedroom. He needed to go place his head in a bucket of water and hold it there until he drowned of shame.

Between managing Queenscove's entrance into Society, the Marriage Law, and the driving push of ACD development, Aldon had almost forgotten about the letter that he had sent to Cedric Diggory, weeks ago. But Diggory, it seemed, had not, and it was a week after the Marriage Law passed that he spotted the unfamiliar owl, perched on the balcony of Christie's penthouse, a tightly furled scroll in its claws.

Aldon opened the sliding door and retrieved the letter from the bird, who immediately took wing, diving off the balcony. He glanced it the letter suspiciously, returning inside to his bedroom, and pulled out his wand to check it over – he hadn't recognized the handwriting, and even if no one could trap him into marriage by letter, he was cautious. There was nothing, so Aldon reached for a knife and pried open the plain red seal.

_Blake, _he read. _My apologies for my long delay in responding to your letter. To be honest, I didn't know what to make of it, and you didn't provide me with any reasons as to why you were asking. But, after thinking it over and seeing the events of the past couple months, I think it's fair for me to hear you out._

After that, there was just a date, a time, a set of Apparition coordinates, and Diggory's signature. Aldon smiled, a broad one, and took a note of the information in his trusty black notebook. He didn't need the rest, so he set fire to the letter with a quick _Incendio, _and watched it burn to ashes.

XXX

_ANs: This marks probably the halfway point of Vanguard, actually - a shock! Personal commentary, for the few readers I haven't completely alienated one way or another; obviously, there are a few points of difference here from TFF, and the reason for this is that all of rev arc was planned prior to mbm revealing information on either the Fade or Riddle's backstory. The politics are also different here, so if Riddle wasn't noble before, there's no way he wouldn't have found a way to "ennoble" himself somehow. The explanation for the Fade, especially the soul-body interface is an important thing for later. And no, Harry doesn't come back yet, because at this point, the risk for her personally in coming back is far greater than any benefit that might be gained, and she's not suicidal or stupid._

_For those of you who do not have me followed as an author, I reformatted Smoke and Ashes as "Flashes", which is now a series of companion one-shots and extra tidbits. Chapter 2 of Flashes includes an interesting memorandum of law,_ Ministry v. Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier, addressing_ the question: why hasn't anyone pursued Aldon for blood identity theft?_

_It is both meek and my birthday just before the next installment is posted and, as a present, we'd love to hear your feedback! And thank you to meek as always for her beta, and trust me when I say that what gets posted is both less alienating and inflammatory that my first draft, and also much better. So happy birthday to meek, my almost-birthday and almost-name twin and The Best Beta! And also thanks to mercury who named all the Queenscoves properly so they didn't have really wonky sounding Chinese names._

_Next Chapter: Our lands are under fire / Our villages fall prey to pillage / How can we stay on the sideline / How long will we take this lying down? / It is time to join forces / Let the eagles beak burst on our shields / Unite (The Uprising, by Eluveitie)_


	9. Chapter 9

Francesca was running late. She didn't need to see the clock to know that she was late, but the fact that she _could _see the clock behind Michelle's head meant that she knew _exactly _how late she was. It was five-thirty-eight and sixteen seconds, and practice was supposed to end at _five-thirty_, and maybe it was only a six-minute dash across campus to her room, but she had planned for a _shower_ before she got on the comm orb with Aldon at six. And instead, she had been called out by the dance captain, because _Javier Esposito_ needed a dance partner for pairs, and _he_, apparently, wanted _her_.

"Michelle, I'm a soloist," she said slowly, her eyes glancing to the clock behind the captain's head. "I'm just – I've always been a soloist, I'm not really – I'm sorry, Javier, but I think it would be best if you went with someone else."

"You haven't _always_ been a soloist," Michelle corrected, raising a finger, daring her to object. "You danced pairs in your second year, you remember?"

"Yes, and look how that turned out." Francesca scowled. It had been months of stress, wondering just how late Jeremy would be to practice that day, if he even showed up, and then he had _fallen _in competition. They had finished, _not_ dead last, but close to. After that, she had sworn off pairs. It wasn't for her – she wanted to be in complete control of her performance, without relying on someone else.

"You also dance pairs with your other friends." Michelle stabbed her finger at her. "I've seen you on stage, when you get pulled for theatre troupe things, you and Archie Black can put together a _hell_ of a performance. And at the Winter Formal and Spring Fling, I've seen you dance with John, and others."

"That's – that's different." Francesca crossed her arms over her chest. Now it was five-forty-one and fifty-one seconds, and she definitely wouldn't be able to get a shower in before her comm orb meeting. She would have to be satisfied with washing her face and leaving a full shower until later. Ugh. "I did well in last year's women's soloist competition, and I'm going to do better this year, and I – I don't – where is this coming from?"

"You placed third in last year's women's soloists, that's true," Michelle replied. "Javier and his partner placed second in pairs, and his partner graduated. He thinks you'd match well, and I agree. I want you to dance pairs with him this year, Francesca – you have the right body type for cabaret, and the skill to do it."

Francesca looked at Javier, a lean seventh year with dark brown hair and eyes, broad shoulders and, for dancers, a more obviously muscular form than most. He wore an easy, unoffended grin on his face, because he was the top male dancer in Dance Club, and he knew that he would get what he wanted. And what he wanted was _her_, partnering with him. Her scowl grew deeper and her eye flicked to the clock – five forty-three. And twenty seconds. "But I don't know how to do any of cabaret lifts, throws, spins, or anything. I'm a _contemporary soloist_, Captain."

"Francesca," Javier cut in, and his voice was kind, but there was something else behind it, something hard and determined. Francesca looked up at him again, and this time she recognized the look in his eyes. There was a hunger there that Francesca knew well. "I want to _win _this year. I asked for you because I saw you last year, crying when you accepted your third-place medal, and even if the judges didn't know, I knew you were crying because you didn't _win_. You should have won – you were unfairly hit in your artistic scores. Athletically, you're strong enough for cabaret – I can teach you the spins, lifts, and throws."

Francesca stared at him a moment, taken aback. She hadn't thought anyone had seen that. John knew, of course, because John knew everything, but Archie, Hermione, her own dance captain… she didn't think anyone had known that. She glanced at the clock, again. Five-forty-seven. If she didn't hurry it up, it wouldn't just be missing a shower, she would just be late.

She took a deep, shaky, breath, trying to think it through rationally. She did want to win, and she looked back at Javier – he was a regular, he was at practice as often and as long as she was, and she had seen him and his old partner, Marina Potechin, working on their routine outside of formal practice times too, sneaking gym time or practice space on the lawn. He wasn't like Jeremy, who was a casual at the best of times – Javier was in it to win, just like Francesca.

"Fine," she snapped. Five-fifty, and Javier grinned. "I'll – I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"Bring your sparkly heels." Javier winked at her, while Michelle breathed a sigh of relief. Francesca uncrossed her arms, going to pick up her bag, which held her shoes.

"Thanks, Francesca," Michelle said with a grateful smile, her white teeth flashing against her dark skin. "I appreciate it, and I really do think that you and Javier will be great together."

"I've got a lot of moves to learn in the next few months, Michelle," Francesca muttered in reply, swinging her bag over her shoulder and pulling her hair out of the long ponytail that she kept it in for dance practice. She shook it out, letting it cascade down her back. Five-fifty-two. If she ran, she would make it on time. "I have to go – I'll see you tomorrow."

It was only because she was rushing from Seaton House that she didn't see them. Normally, she was more careful, more aware of her surroundings when she was alone on campus, and she always had an eye out for the telltale flash of wand magic. John had always hated that – he thought that she shouldn't need to fear anything at school, and he did his best to make that the case. But John was a bit of a moron if he truly thought that his measures, largely composed of a healthy reputation for retaliation in the event that anything happened to her, really meant she had nothing to fear. Even last year, in the midst of relative popularity due to the Triwizard Tournament, Francesca had had to be careful.

She missed it. She missed the tell-tale flicker of magic on the ground. Her feet tangled around the Trip-Jinx on the ground, and she went down, hard, her hands splayed on the ground to catch her fall on the pavement.

"So," she heard a voice say, and she immediately tried to banish it. She didn't want to see their faces, she didn't want to know who it was, she didn't want John to be able to pluck these moments out of her memories. What did she have with her? Her paper spells were tucked in her bag, which was _stupid_, she should have tucked them under her bra strap _the way she always did_, she had just forgotten because she was in a rush, she was an _idiot_. Her bag was crushed under her.

This was bad. This was _really_ bad. She reached for her paper spells, scrabbling at the flap to her bag, only to be hit by a Stinging Hex to her hand. She tried with the other hand, but no luck – another Stinging Hex.

"Ah, ah, I don't think so," the girl said, crouching in front of her. Francesca wouldn't look at her – she couldn't give John that information. "No stupid paper spell for you. This is nice, isn't it? No handsome protectors around you, this time. Do you know how hard it is to find you alone and unprepared?"

Francesca did know. She knew about John's quiet rules among both Holmes Wing and the Duelling Club – Francesca was his little sister, and she didn't have a wand, and he would take it as a personal favour if they would keep an eye out for her. The first few years, there had even been a _patrol, _and that one she couldn't even pin on John, because that was _Kel_, after the first time she got beat up and Neal had to fix her up.

She was a fifth year, now. Why was this _still happening_ to her? Why couldn't people just _leave her alone_?

"What – what do you want from me?" she asked, her hands burning and swelling. She would never be able to get the clasp of her bag open with her fingers the way they were, not without being too obvious about it. She could call her lightning, but that was dangerous, and she didn't want to hurt anyone. She didn't want to look at her attacker, and what if she hit the wrong thing, or the wrong person? "What – what have I ever done to you?"

"To me?" The girl had a bit of a hard laugh in her voice. "Oh, nothing much, personally. I just hate the way that all the guys at school look at you, like you're this wonderful person, the way they're always around you. You don't even belong here, and guys like John, or Faleron, or Merric or Esmond or Seaver, they don't even _look_ at the rest of us."

Keep them talking, keep them talking, Francesca thought frantically. If they're talking, they can't be hitting you, or worse. "John is gay," she blurted out.

"As if," a new voice scoffed, and Francesca felt someone kick her in the stomach, _hard_. She gagged, but she hadn't eaten since lunch, and with a bit of effort, she didn't throw up. "John Kowalski, gay? He plays Quidditch _and_ Quodpot _and_ he duels, he's as manly as they come. How can he be gay?"

That was the stupidest reasoning Francesca had ever heard, even if she curled up protectively around her soft spots. That kick had _hurt_. "He is," she insisted, for all the good that it might do. "He's seeing someone from Germany!"

Another hard kick, this one in her spine. "Stop lying, slut. Even if he were, he's only one guy. You're probably sleeping around with the rest of the Duelling Club, too – I can't think of why else anyone would like you, you're a useless excuse for a mage."

A third voice. Francesca was in trouble, but John was coming, she could _feel_ him coming. Thank the gods, thank _all_ the gods – even if she might be embarrassed, she just wanted to get out of this, now, and she didn't want to call her lightning. It was too dangerous.

"Have you," Francesca panted, feeling another kick. "Have you tried _talking_ to the rest of them? I'm not – I'm not _seeing_ any of them. I swear, I'm not in the way of whatever you want, I just – I just want to go back to my room!"

"Yeah, well, we want to never see you ever again," the first girl said, something final in her voice. "We want you to leave school, and you haven't, and you just flaff around here doing whatever you want. It certainly isn't _classes_, like the rest of us, with how many _accommodations_ you have. You don't belong here, and we're going to see to it that this time, you leave, and you don't come back. _Incendio!_"

Francesca shrieked, feeling the heat on her back, and she realized that they had set her _hair_ on fire! _Stop, drop and roll,_ she heard a primary school teacher's voice, coming out of nowhere, and she hastily tried to roll – she tried to roll, she tried to get one of her swollen, fat fingers to draw the rune for _water_, but it _hurt_, _she hurt, _and her bag was in the way. She hit one of the other girls' legs, and that girl kicked her again, harder, in the stomach, throwing another hex at her. Francesca didn't know what the hex was, but she threw up on the girl's shoes.

"_What_ is going on here?"

It was John, his voice a cold wind. It was John it was John it was John, and Francesca nearly cried with relief when she felt cool water being poured over her from someone's wand. Her _hair_. She had grown it out so _long_, too, it had taken years. "Hey, it'll be fine," Faleron said quietly, his southern drawl rounding his vowels, and Francesca felt his arm, gentle, around her shoulder. She flinched, the weight rubbing against the hot burns on her skin, and Faleron dropped his arm quickly, coming around and leaning down to look her in the eye. "Let's get you out of here. John and Merric will handle it, let's get you to Daine, or one of your other friends. Archie or Hermione, right?"

Francesca sniffled, trying to wipe her eyes with one swollen, puffy hand. She hurt, and now she was soaking wet, but without the cooling water, she could feel that the burns went across her shoulders, all the way down her back. She didn't want to know how bad she looked, right now, and it hurt, and she felt sick.

"I don't feel so good," she murmured, dropping her eyes. "I don't – I'm late for a meeting."

"Whatever the meeting is, it'll keep," Faleron replied, his brown eyes serious. "Come on. Can you walk?"

"I—" Francesca's breath hitched a little, and she tried to wipe her eyes again. Faleron pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her, and when she stared at it stupidly for a minute, Faleron slowly leaned over and used it to wipe her face for her. Francesca could hear John saying something behind her to her attackers, and she could feel his pulsating rage. "But John – I don't want John to—"

"Merric will stop him from doing anything too stupid," Faleron said, frowning a little as he sent his cousin a look over her shoulder. "He won't get himself expelled or anything. Do you need help getting up?"

Francesca took a deep breath, focusing and considering the question. Faleron stood up, offering her a hand, but she moved until she was on all fours, the pain in her hands and knees telling her that she was injured, and pushed herself to her feet by herself. She was shaky, she stumbled a little, and Faleron caught her by the arm and steadied her. He took her bag from her – this was stupid, if she had just had access to her paper charms, she had three charged shield spells ready for situations exactly like this. She was just – she had just been too much in a rush to remember to move them under her bra strap. This was her fault, for not being careful enough. She could never let her guard down, when would she learn that basic lesson?

"Come on," Faleron murmured again, his voice kind but insistent as he slowly directed her towards Pettingill Hall. She didn't really want to go, but she hurt too much to fight him over it. "Don't worry about John, or Merric. Let's just get you taken care of."

Archie and Hermione were sitting in the Pettingill Hall common room, a huge room that had always felt too large, too sprawling for Francesca's tastes. They looked up as Faleron led her in, limping a little, and Archie stood up in alarm. "Chess! What _happened_ to you?"

"Some girls set her on fire," Faleron said flatly, and Francesca realized how angry he must be, too. He had just set it aside to make sure that she was all right, first. "Would you take a look at her?"

"They _set her on fire,_" Hermione repeated, flicking her wrist, her wand coming into hand, but Archie was already casting a diagnostic spell on her, his face growing grimmer by the second.

"Chair," Archie said, and one look and tilt of his head banished the group of third years that were occupying the closest study table. "Scrapes on hands and knees, probably from a fall, still bleeding, two stinging hexes, something that looks like the whip curse, a few bruises, and second-degree burns down her back, a few third-degree burns. She's going to need a burn cream, too. Hermione, do we have a camera?"

"No!" Francesca cried, feeling tears well up, again. "I don't want _pictures_ of this, Archie! I'll just – can't you just – take care of the worst of it? I don't – I just want to go back to my room and I'm late for my meeting with Aldon, I don't – I don't want this to be a _big deal_, or anything."

She started crying, her fat hands still too useless for her to do anything to wipe her eyes properly. Her breath was hitching, and she couldn't breathe properly. Archie let out a worried sigh, exchanging a look with Hermione, who came in front of her.

"Francesca," her friend said seriously. "Honey, this was a really violent assault, these are awful injuries – this should never have happened to you. We're going to have to report this to the faculty, one way or another, and having pictures of your injuries will help make sure that whoever it was doesn't hurt anyone else, and it'll make you safer for the future."

Francesca glared at her, taking the handkerchief that Faleron offered to her again with numb fingers. She patted at her face with it, not that it really did anything. Francesca didn't want to tell anyone, she wasn't a _snitch_, and it was only because she wasn't careful enough that John and the others even got involved. "No. I don't want pictures, I won't let you take pictures. Tell the profs whatever you want, I don't care, I don't want to be involved. I just want to go back to my room. Can't you just – just take care of the worst of it?"

Archie and Hermione exchanged another look, but Archie nodded, making the decision for both of them. He motioned for her to turn around, so that he could work on her back, while Hermione conjured a privacy curtain for them. "No pictures. Fine, Chess. But Hermione and I are going to have to report this, and Faleron will too, I imagine, as a witness. This isn't supposed to happen at AIM."

Francesca turned around, sniffling, her back one huge wall of pain. Her hair – how bad was it? How short would she have to cut it? She had spent _forever_ growing it out. And she was late – she was _so_ late for her meeting with Aldon. "Do whatever you want, as long as there are no pictures. We did worse to each other in the Trials last year."

"The Trials had some of the best Healers at school on-site, though," Archie retorted, but Francesca could hear the smile in his voice as he started working on her back. The Healing magic was a balm, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Faleron had pulled out a chair from a nearby table, his face worried as he looked down at her. Archie's magic tickled a little, along her back. "They were an exception. This might sting, Chess, I'm sorry for that."

"Mm." Francesca winced. It didn't hurt as much as Archie said it would – getting the burns had hurt far more. Hermione was at her other side, dealing with another one of her injuries, and Francesca felt a sting in her hands and knees. Faleron grimaced, seeing her wince, reaching out one hand to her, but Francesca looked away. "How is – how is my hair?"

"Umm." Archie hesitated, and Francesca almost started crying, again. "Umm, it's not great, but I think it'll still come past your shoulders, Chess, and it'll grow back. Thea's good with hair – Faleron, would you mind going to get her? She lives in Oliver, in the Addison Wing."

Faleron hesitated, dropping his hand to his side. "I'd rather not leave Francesca right now, and I'm sure John wouldn't like me to, either," he said slowly. Francesca wouldn't look him in the eye – she knew perfectly well that Faleron King had been crushing on her since something like her third year. She had just never felt the same way, so she had been dodging his subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to get a date with her for about the same length of time. She felt bad about it, turning down his invitations to the Winter Ball, the Spring Fling, only to go alone, but it wouldn't be fair to get his hopes up. She had learned her lesson with Emile Shirazi, on that point.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," Hermione snapped, glaring at him. "Archie and I are here, and no one's going to attack her in the middle of the Pettingill Hall common room. Go get Thea!"

"Fine, fine," Faleron said hastily, getting up and throwing another worried look at Francesca. "Francesca, is this what you want? I can take you to town tomorrow afternoon, if there's anything you want – new clothes, a new bag. Anything."

"I – I'm fine, Faleron," Francesca stuttered, sighing a little with relief as Hermione dealt with a line of fire across her lower back that she hadn't even realized was there until it was gone. "Thank you. For everything."

"Don't worry about it, Francesca." Faleron sighed. "It shouldn't have happened. I'll go get Thea."

Her burns took the longest to Heal, with Archie working solely on them for almost a half hour while Hermione dealt with her other injuries, before turning to help him. When Thea showed up, looking a little confused but carrying the pair of scissors that she used for hair, she sucked in a breath seeing the disaster that was Francesca's hair.

"Archie said it wasn't that bad," Francesca mumbled, turning red. Hermione had lent her a sweatshirt, a too-big lumpy one that didn't fit Francesca at all, but her shirt was only fit for the garbage bin, now. It was a good thing that she was only wearing a practice dance outfit, just a plain black shirt, which she had covered with a blue cardigan, which she would have to replace, too. They were thin, so the burns were probably worse than they might have been otherwise. "I mean…"

"It's not," Thea replied hastily, putting on a bright grin. "I mean, it's not going to be what it was, because you had it nearly waist-length from what I remember, but you know what, change is good! I'll keep it as long as I can, it'll still come past your shoulders, and I'll put in some layers, too. You'll look bomb, I promise!"

Thea didn't ask any questions about what had happened, instead getting busy with Francesca's hair, chattering on at her some nonsense or other about a date that she had gone on with one of the Quodpot players, a sixth year that Francesca didn't know. Whoever it was had decided to take her to a horror movie, on the theory that Thea would be appropriately terrified and would cling to him, except that he turned out to be _more_ afraid of the movie than Thea herself was, and it was generally an embarrassing scene all around.

"I mean, I don't even know how he found it scary – it might be the acting experience, but I could see the jump scares coming from a mile away, like, oh, here we go, here's another one! And the actress they picked to scream was _terrible_, no one actually screams like that," Thea finished, leaning back to admire her work. She pulled two strands of Francesca's hair to the front, tugging them to check that the length was even. It was shoulder length, as Archie had predicted, much shorter than it was before. "It was kind of a stupid movie, don't see it. There, you look great! All good!"

Francesca giggled softly. She was really tired, and she could feel that John was coming in her direction, now. He would be even more exhausting, she was sure, so she appreciated Thea trying to cheer her up with some normalcy. "Are you, um, going to see him again?"

"Oh, _hell_ no," the blonde said, waving a hand airily. "After hearing him squeak like that, I don't care _how_ manly he is on the Quodpot pitch, I'm just not that into him."

"This about your date with Greg Hawkins?" John said, voice amused as he joined them. "The horror movie date? We all told him that he should have chosen a romcom, but he was all on about this horror movie theory. Thanks for doing this, Thea. I really appreciate it."

"Y'all, it was my pleasure." Thea laughed, tucking her pair of scissors away. "I like doing hair. Let me know if there's anything else I can do!"

"Thank you, Thea," Francesca echoed, with a weak sort of smile, avoiding looking at John. She didn't want to have the full force of his thoughts, his feelings, his anger right now. She just wanted to go home, go back to her room – she had missed her meeting with Aldon by some two hours, now, but she should try to get on the comm orb, see if he was still awake so that she could at least apologize. They did need to talk about the ACD, but it was well past midnight in Britain.

Thea's bright blue eyes softened, a little. "It really was no problem, Francesca. Let me know if you want to go shopping, sometime – we'll make Faleron drive us in and carry all our stuff, and we'll get milkshakes, too!"

She headed out of Pettingill Hall, blonde curls swinging, and Francesca looked down, tucked her hands in the giant front pocket of Hermione's sweatshirt. It was a plain one, in blue, and Francesca didn't really like it. John sighed.

"I'm not mad, monster," he started, and Francesca snorted. "Okay, well, I'm not mad _at you._ I'm pretty pissed at those girls."

There was a pause, and Francesca glanced up, a little worried about what she would see in his eyes. He was angry, she knew that instantly, but he was mostly worried about her, right now. He was tired, too, and frustrated. Archie and Hermione had long since disappeared, and she knew through her connection with John that they were talking to the profs about her injuries. That was where John had been, too, with Merric, and Faleron had also gone in report it. "Did you do anything to them?"

"Depends what you mean by _do_," John replied, tilting his head. He hadn't beaten them up, as he had done others – Merric had stopped him from that, and he hadn't thought this was something with little enough evidence that he had to settle it with his wand or his fists under the table. "I had some words with them, and their Occlumency shields are shit, so I heard their thoughts, too. I know what happened, Chess."

"Fine." Francesca looked away. "Why are we talking, then? You know what happened. Can't I just go, now? I want to shower, and change, and then I need to go work on the ACD. I'm busy, and I don't want to talk about it."

John sighed. "Come on, monster. Don't be like this. You should come report it, too. They're considering expulsion. That was what I suggested, and with Merric and Faleron backing me up on what we saw, as well as Archie and Hermione reporting in on your injuries, it's a textbook assault case. If you go in and talk to the profs too, it's a done deal. You should do it, Chess. Please."

"I don't want to." Francesca stood up, tucking her chair in. "Involving the professors – it just makes them think they're being unfairly persecuted, and they'll hit back harder, when you can't see, when no one's around. Those three are just – they aren't the only ones. I don't want to make this into big deal, it's embarrassing enough, and it'll just make it worse because now everyone will think I'm a _snitch_, they'll say I got three people expelled. I don't – I need to go back to my room, work on the ACD. I missed my meeting with Aldon, I need to apologize."

"Chess…" John swallowed, taking a deep breath. He wasn't looking at her, instead looking down at the table, carefully _not_ engaging his gift. "I could _take_ the memory from you, you know."

Francesca glared at him. "Is that a threat?" He never would. John was too good a person for that, and Francesca knew it. Francesca knew John better than anyone else in the world, and John was _extremely_ ethical about how he used his gift. He would _never_ forcibly take a memory. Not from her, not from _anyone_.

"No, but…" His mouth firmed. "I hate it that you don't fight back, Chess! I hate it. I hate it that you just let it go, throwing yourself into your ACD as a way of running away instead of dealing with it. You have a chance right now to have three people who attacked you kicked out of school, and you're just going to run away and hide, _again_. How often does this have to happen, Chess? How often?"

"My ACD has nothing to do with this, John," Francesca retorted, picking up her bag and checking inside for her paper spells. There were eight of them – three charged shield spells, a slowing spell, a strong wind spell to push people back. Two spells like _Finite Incantatem_, which would end a jinx or hex if she was hit with one. A speed spell, for herself so she could run faster. She just hadn't had them in hand at the time, and she shifted them, with trembling fingers, under her bra strap, where they could actually be of help to her. She also knew a bunch of attack runes, if things got more violent, she just hadn't been able to form them in her mind or draw them with her fingers after she had been hit with the stinging hexes. And she had her lightning, but it could _kill _people, and she hadn't wanted to resort to that, today. "I'm going back to my room."

John sighed, closing his eyes. "I knew this would happen," he muttered, then he stood up. "Come on. I'll walk you back. Your hair looks good."

XXX

Francesca didn't call, that night. She was always prompt, calling him at exactly at eleven his time, and Aldon glanced at his pale green orb, worried. She never missed a planned call – it wasn't as if they spoke _every_ night, but he had to admit that they did speak most nights. He tried to keep it to the ACD, since it was what they _had_ to talk about, and it was already vaguely improper enough that he was speaking to her so late at night. No, she wasn't there _with _him, but the temptation was always there – to cross boundaries, to talk about the things that they weren't really supposed to talk about together, at least not without her parents' permission.

He wanted to know more about her. Not just the ACD, which was wonderful enough, but he wanted to know more about _her_. He wanted to ask what classes she took at AIM. He wanted to know why she used paper spells instead of a wand. He wanted to know what she did, other than classes and working on the ACD. He wanted to ask about dance. He wanted to know what else was in that mind of hers, aside from the ACD.

But he didn't think these were things that he should talk with her about, not without her parents' explicit approval. It was difficult, applying the etiquette rules he had learned as a child to the modern era, especially when clearly no one else in his new world seemed to care, but he was pretty sure that the only reason that his talks with Francesca, by communication orb late at night, alone and unsupervised, were acceptable was because they were talking about the ACD. Some of their other interactions had crossed lines too, but those were slightly better, he thought; the closed door at the library had been in a _public library_, and all their time at Queenscove or Grimmauld Place had been with open doors, with a resident Lord whom, Aldon assumed, would play the role of her guardian at the time. Queenscove even set rules for him – no _funny business_, he had said.

Communication orb calls were _different_. Only Aldon would be protecting that boundary, and he tried to be meticulous about it. What would her parents think, otherwise? What about her future betrothed?

He steadfastly ignored the pang of annoyance that the last question always gave him.

Eleven at night came, and it went. It was five after, then ten. Fifteen minutes late, then it was half-twelve. It wasn't like her to be late at all, and Aldon bit his lip, thinking about it, before trying to call her. The connection went both ways, after all, and just because Francesca didn't call him didn't mean that he couldn't try calling her. He reached over to the pale green orb, which glowed at little a night, and triggered it on.

"Francesca?" he asked, a small frown on his face.

There was no response.

Aldon sighed, letting go of the orb and setting it beside his bed. There was little he could do now, if she wasn't there. Instead, he turned in to bed, figuring they would just reschedule until tomorrow. He was disappointed, though – he had made some breakthroughs on the ideal arrangement of the proto-runes, and they had managed to come down on him being the new test subject for a new ACD. He had to tell her the pattern layout, as well as his magical frequency, so she could make the test device and ship it over to him. But it could wait – one day wouldn't make a difference, in the long run. It just wasn't like her, to miss a meeting.

When he woke up, his communication orb buzzing beside him on his bed, it was dark, as dark as it ever really got in London. It was still, quiet, the very early hours in the morning. He reached blindly for the pale green orb, sitting upright.

"Aldon?" Francesca's voice was shy, hesitant, coming out of the orb. "Are you, um, awake?"

"I am now," Aldon couldn't help replying, also reaching for his wand and casting a wordless _Tempus _charm. After midnight, just past one in the morning. He tried to clear the grogginess out of his voice. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Oh, um," Francesca replied, and Aldon could picture her, almost, looking down at her perfect, pink, pretty nails. It would be near eight at night, for her, and he wondered vaguely what she was wearing. Were her sleeping clothes as casual and relaxed as John's t-shirt and _pyjama_ bottoms that he occasionally saw the boy lounging in over the summer, or did she maybe wear sleeping robes, or even nightgowns—

No, he told himself sternly. He was _not _imagining that.

"I just wanted to, um, apologize for missing our meeting tonight," Francesca said, her voice soft and embarrassed. "I, um, something came up. I'm sorry, and it won't happen again, Aldon. I'm sorry about waking you up, too, I didn't mean to, I just – um, I wanted to check to see if you were still awake so I could apologize."

"No need," Aldon replied, even as he adjusted himself on his bed so that he was leaning against the headboard. Something was wrong – she had never been late to their meetings before. She had never shown any sign of flippancy or anything of the sort, and there was a plaintive sort of note to her voice that worried him. He shouldn't ask – he should just tell her it was fine, that they would talk tomorrow, but something about that felt equally wrong. If they were in the Slytherin Common Room, for example, he would have felt no compunction about asking. It was just the _privacy_, the _intimacy_ of this moment that made him hesitate.

Just this once, he told himself. "Er, Francesca, if you don't mind me asking, are you all right?"

A pause, which was more worrying than anything else. "I'm fine," she replied finally, and Aldon didn't need his gift to know that she was lying. Not that his gift was triggering, right now – oh, so it didn't work over communication orb. Since it was a very specific variant of Natural Legilimency, he wasn't surprised. Like John, he probably needed to be around the person, able to see them, to be able to use it fully.

"I…" Aldon paused. Just once. "I don't think you are, Francesca. Would you like to talk about it?"

"No, I—" Francesca laughed a little, but it sounded high-pitched, hysterical. "It's stupid, Aldon, really. I just – I was running late out of my dance practice, so I wasn't as careful as I normally would be."

"What do you mean by that?" Aldon frowned. From what he knew of AIM from Archie, it was an eminently safe place, nothing like the Hogwarts that he had gone to for the past seven years. Even before the Sleeping Sickness, the basilisk, the Tournament, there had been the years of the Cursed Vaults.

Francesca laughed again, a sad sort of sound. "I mean – haven't you wondered? About – about why I don't use a wand? Why I came up with the ACD, why I did research into wandlore and developed the idea of magical frequencies?"

Aldon had wondered, of course. He had never asked, partly because it never seemed appropriate to, and John had explicitly told him that it was none of his business. He paused, thinking over his answer, and decided denying it would be unbelievable. "I have wondered, yes," he replied slowly.

"It's because I don't match with a wand, Aldon." Francesca sighed, heavy, and Aldon could practically feel her breath against his cheek. "I mean – there is a theoretical wand that I should match with, cherry wood and kraken's blood, but…"

"But no one has seen a kraken in hundreds of years," Aldon finished for her, sympathetic. What must that be like, to know that there _was_ a wand that you could match with, but not be able to have it? It probably happened a lot in Wizarding Britain, too, if only because some people couldn't afford the wands they matched with, now – the trade restrictions meant that most of the wandmakers were highly restricted in the kinds of materials they could use, and the rarer the ingredient, the more expensive the wand became. Aldon had been fortunate in his own wand combination – pine and phoenix feather. Wand-quality pine was prevalent in Britain, and phoenix feathers hadn't been affected as strongly by the trade sanctions, since about half the nations in Wizarding Africa didn't recognize the ICW.

He wondered if he should apologize – not for anything he had done, but merely the magical world's failure to provide a wand for her. He didn't think so, because there was nothing wrong with any of the other channelling methods, and he didn't want her to think he felt sorry for her. Thousands of witches and wizards worldwide used paper spells, and the only reason that she felt odd about it was that she happened not to live where most of the rest of them did.

"Yes," Francesca agreed, and there was a moment of silence, before she continued. "With decreasing natural habitats for magical creatures and so on, I won't be the only one – there will come a time, I think, when many creatures we now use for wand cores will be extinct. New methods need to be developed, as flexible and agile as wands. So – I made the ACD. Something as individualized as a wand, that will do _all_ the same things as a wand, quickly and efficiently. So, if – if someone doesn't match with a wand, in the future, it won't be like it was for me."

She was lying, and Aldon knew it. It wasn't _only_ that – that was just what she told people, because the truth wasn't anywhere near so altruistic. The ACD wasn't just an amazing invention and work of love – it was a work of sheer obsession. What fueled obsession? Love worked, but for Francesca, Aldon didn't think that was it.

The ACD was Francesca's revenge on the world, the physical embodiment of her rage and desire and hunger to prove herself to the world that had given her magic, and then deprived her of the tools she needed to harness it the way that everyone around her did. The ACD was how Francesca planned, intentionally or not, on destroying the world and remaking it in her own image, turning it into one that she _could_ fully participate in it, so that she could be everything in it that she wanted to be.

Aldon understood.

"All right," he said, bringing it back to the original question. "You weren't as careful as you normally are. What happened?"

Another pause, another long sigh. "I got attacked," she mumbled, so softly that Aldon barely heard it. "I – normally, I keep my paper spells in a place I can get at them fast, but I was running late from dance practice, so I forgot to take them out of my bag. Some girls got me. They were mad because – because – I don't know. Something about how they like some of the boys in Duelling Club, who pay too much attention to me, I think, and with the paper spells, I don't belong at AIM, they say. They – they kind of – maybe – set me on fire."

Aldon choked, letting go of his communication orb so that she couldn't hear his reaction. They set her on _fire?_ He supposed that fire spells were fairly standard in duelling, he had cast his fair share of them, but it was different casting an _Incendio_ spell at someone who could easily put themselves out with their own wands compared to casting it to someone who didn't have easy means of defending herself. If something like this had happened at Hogwarts, if he had known her then, he would have gone very far out of his way to make her attacker's lives _very_ unpleasant.

"John came, with Faleron and Merric, so they rescued me, and Archie and Hermione patched me up," Francesca was saying, sounding a little embarrassed, though Aldon didn't think she should. He _hoped_ that John was making good on the threats that he had always issued with ease and was wrecking someone's life for this. _Several _someones. He was sure John wouldn't do it as thoroughly as Aldon might, because John had a deluded sense of fair play and that generally didn't lead to the level of viciousness that Aldon thought her attackers deserved. "Anyway – it's probably getting around school, now, that these girls are probably getting kicked out because of me, and John and Faleron and Kel are probably setting up a guard schedule, and it's – it's really stupid. I'm sorry – I shouldn't have told you all this, it's not your problem. I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry about missing our meeting today."

Aldon swallowed, reaching for his orb. If he was there, he would have volunteered to guard her, too. He wondered who Faleron and Kel were – he had heard the names before, from Archie and Neal, hadn't he? He searched his memories, but he couldn't come up with it. "It's fine, Francesca. I'm – I'm glad you told me. We can talk tomorrow night?"

"I can't, Aldon, I'm sorry," she replied, and her voice broke a little. "I – Faleron said he would drive me to town to get some new clothes, because I had to throw out the clothes I was wearing today, and I need new dance clothes. Because of the burns, and all."

"It's fine," Aldon said quickly, grimacing. "The night after, then."

"Yes, the night after. Sorry, again. And, um, for waking you up with my problems, too. Um, have a good night."

"It's nothing, Francesca. Don't worry about it. Sleep well."

It wasn't nothing. It wasn't nothing, and Aldon was a liar, because with that conversation, the boundary line blurred, and then it was gone.

They talked mostly about the ACD, but they talked about other things, too. She spoke, from time to time, about school – she was in a heavily modified program that focused on magical theory, runic magic, and non-wand methods of channeling magic. She could song-cast, but in terms of magical power, she was weak, below average, so she couldn't do very much with it outside of a group cast. Aldon was impressed that an American school would accommodate her so thoroughly, and with the sheer _variety_ of classes that they had available – there were many more courses than at Hogwarts, the magical theory classes were heavily fought over, and other magical channelling methods were actively taught. It was _fascinating._

She talked about dance, sometimes – it was, apparently, a huge part of her life. Magical dance was its own niche competitive form of its own, nowhere near as big as Quodpot or Quidditch or Duelling, but it had its own dedicated followers. She competed, every year, and last year she had picked up a third-place ribbon for her routine to a piece that Aldon had never heard of, called _Ride of the Valkyries_. She was dancing in the pairs category this year instead, which she didn't sound overly enthusiastic about, but neither did she sound upset about it.

When they talked about the ACD, specifically _Aldon's _new ACD, she mentioned that she had gotten some _very_ experimental materials from her father. He asked, a little curiously, about her family – her father was a professor at a famous Muggle school called Stanford, while her mother worked in Muggle technology. From what Aldon understood, Francesca's mother occupied a role in her company very much like his own father, the Lord Rosier, with the Rosier Investment Trust. Her mother was the headstrong one of the family – whenever Francesca spoke about her, it was with a mix of admiration, love, and a hint of dread. It was _complicated_, she said.

She groused about the fact that John had, in fact, set up a guard schedule for her, and there was always _someone_ ready to walk her to breakfast or dinner, to her classes, to and from dance practice. The girls were _not_ expelled, much to Francesca's relief but much to Aldon's consternation, and after that, more often than not, their conversations would be interrupted by someone banging on her door, yelling at her that it was time to go to dinner. Almost always male, Aldon was annoyed to note – there was John, but there was also Merric_, _and Esmond, and Seaver, and Owen, and _Faleron._

Aldon remembered who Faleron was now, not that it was of any use. From what Archie had said, he was one of Francesca's most persistent suitors, and despite being an ocean away, Aldon wondered about him. What was he like? What was _his_ family background like? What resources did he have, what could he offer her?

How did Aldon measure up?

Francesca even talked about Faleron, every so often. Faleron had a car, or rather it was Queenscove's very beat up car which he had signed over to him. He drove her to town to buy things every now and then. In town, he had taken her for burgers and milkshakes. He was in the Duelling Club and had a good track record on the duelling circuit. He had tried out for the Triwizard Tournament last year, making to the top eight of the AIM Trials. He had given her his rice pudding dessert. Aldon could do … well, none of those things.

He shoved that aside. That didn't really matter, did it? He didn't know, so instead he listened to whatever she wanted to talk about. Most of their conversations were still about the ACD, about her hopes and dreams for it, but when the conversation changed, Aldon didn't stop it, anymore.

In return, he told her about Hogwarts, about being a halfblood at Hogwarts, about finding out with his gift when it came alive on his thirteenth birthday. He told her about being noble, what it was like growing up as the _Rosier Heir_, and then about how life had changed as his blood-status became known, when he was disowned. No one had come around to prosecute him for blood identity theft, though they very well could, but Aldon suspected that was because, as one of Justice's Chosen, the Ministry was worried about what might happen if they _did_. He talked about his parents, emotionally distant, primarily concerned with the family business, and about how he still, months later, wasn't sure how to relate to Christie, his biological mother. He told her about his best friend, Ed, who would be returning next month from his long honeymoon abroad. Aldon had no idea how his oldest friend would react to Aldon's drastic change in circumstances, and on some level, he didn't want to know. If it was to be outright rejection, he would rather never open that Pandora's Box and find out.

He wasn't supposed to be talking about these things with her. Not just the propriety of talking about these topics, which were growing farther and farther away from the ACD, but – Aldon hadn't talked about some of these things with _anyone_. Not even Ed, who often knew without Aldon having to say anything, but he didn't _talk_ about these things, and he didn't know what made him talk about these with _her_. Maybe it was that he saw a bit of himself in her – even if they were very different people, there were certain things that he saw in her that he hadn't seen in anyone, not even in Harriett Potter.

Harriett Potter had hungered for recognition too, but she hadn't _raged _for it the way that he and Francesca raged. Harriett Potter would break _rules_ to achieve her goals, but she didn't want to _break_ _the_ _world_, not in the complete and total way that Aldon and Francesca did. Aldon, when he got down to it, wasn't Archie, wasn't Hermione, wasn't Dumbledore. He didn't want to _fix_ Wizarding Britain. He wanted to burn it to the ground, and only when it was ashes did he even want to think about remaking it. Just like Francesca wanted her ACD to take over the world, rewriting the rules of magic as they knew them. One day, in her vision, everyone would have an ACD, and the wand would be only an _afterthought_, treated just like her paper spells, a source of infinite ridicule.

And the fact that the ACD was something that he was _personally _fascinated with, as a magical theorist, and that she was the inventor of it, well. Could he be blamed for having more than a purely professional interest?

He blamed himself a little anyway. He was a _noble_, even if it was only a blood noble. He was supposed to have the self-control to handle this, to keep from breaking these boundaries, but he didn't. He didn't have it, and every time he promised himself that this was the _last time_, he would be stricter about keeping to the limits of what they _should _discuss, she would mention something about John, or Faleron, or magical dance or _anything_, and the promise would be broken, gone, because apparently he had no self-control at all. He was a disgrace.

At least there were other things to keep the extent of his disgrace off his mind, including a certain meeting with a certain Welsh wizard that he hadn't seen since their graduation from Hogwarts. Diggory had set the meeting towards the end of October, and Aldon guessed from the length of time between his letter and the planned meeting that Diggory was setting up some precautions. In turn, Aldon considered what precautions he should take – he was not a dueller, but he took his ritual knife with him anyway. He didn't know much blood magic, but he had read enough that in an emergency, he hoped that maybe something might work. He made a couple paper spells, out of a runes book, pre-charged, and tucked them in the pocket of his waistcoat. That was about the best he could do, so with that, he stepped out of Christie's penthouse apartment, into the emergency stairwell, and Apparated away.

It wasn't that he thought _Diggory _would attack him. The main concern, truth be told, was that Aldon could never be sure whether Diggory's owl had been tracked and read. He hoped that, if there was an ambush, at least Diggory would be at his side. Diggory was a good dueller.

He appeared in a small copse of trees and glanced around warily. He had never been much for Herbology, so he couldn't identify the trees – they were _leafy_ trees, that much he knew. The leaves were gold and yellow, some of them blanketing the ground, and they reflected the late afternoon sunlight. He took a few steps forward, his wand close to hand, though he hadn't drawn it yet. He didn't want Diggory to think he was there to attack him, but at the same time, he didn't want to be caught flatfooted, either.

There was a whisper of a spell, and Aldon almost smiled, leaning against the nearest tree, letting the wind blow around him. It was a Welsh spell, so it had to be either Diggory, or an ally of Diggory's, which in this circumstance was more likely to be an ally rather than an enemy. It was a second later that Diggory melted out of the trees.

"Good to see you, Diggory," Aldon greeted him, smirking, crossing his arms over his chest. "And how is the Improper Use of Magic Office? How many charges against your countrymen have you made _disappear_, since you started?"

"None," Diggory replied, visibly relaxing, and motioning for Aldon to follow him. "None at all, because at the time _I_ get to the reports, there haven't _been_ any charges yet. And _I'm_ still a pureblood, so if you report this, my word is legally worth more than yours in a court of law."

Aldon shrugged, following his former classmate deeper into the woods, keeping one eye on the surroundings. They seemed to be alone. "I wasn't planning on it."

"I couldn't be sure." Diggory's voice was cautious, a little curious. "How have _you_ been, Blake?"

"As well as can be expected," Aldon replied, still looking around. Deeper in the woods, the sunlight trickled down less, and it was damper, mossier. It was a little chilly, and he wished he had brought the coat that he had bought, the other day, in the City before work. It had a nice double row of buttons on the front, and he quite liked the look. "I'm working with my biological mother, as well as living with her, and have a number of projects on the go."

Diggory stopped, in a small clearing with a few large, mossy stones, obviously laid there many years ago. He gestured for Aldon to sit down, which Aldon did after only a momentary hesitation. He didn't want the back of his trousers to get dirty, and the stone looked both cold _and _wet, but when he sat down, he was pleasantly surprised by the heat seeping through the rock.

"This is one of my protected places," Diggory advised, looking around with something like a sigh of relief. "One of my wellsprings of power. It's where I come to commune with the elements, which I have to do on a regular basis to keep accessing Welsh traditional magic."

"I see," Aldon replied, with another look around. There was a little more light in the clearing, and it felt peaceful, still.

"You know, I'm a little surprised at you." Diggory tilted his head, light blue eyes considering. "You're – you _were _– Aldon _Rosier_. Dark, SOW Party, noble. Generally, a rich, snobby git who mainly hung out with Edmund Rookwood and Alesana Selwyn, with close connections with other Dark, SOW Party nobles. I don't know what to make of you."

Aldon shrugged, half-smiling. "I'm not sure what to tell you, Diggory. I was all those things – but I was also a halfblood at Hogwarts. I'm also a bastard. I'm also a Truth-Speaker."

"It would make sense if you were a Ministry spy, or a SOW Party infiltrator," Diggory suggested lightly, his voice thoughtful even as his gaze was sharp, considering. He leaned forward, his elbows perched on his knees. "It would be a good move, for you to save your status. You come out as a halfblood, get yourself disowned. That gives you the credibility to approach people like me, undercover. You hand in a few people to the Ministry's justice, and with the Marriage Law passed, you get yourself a good proposal. You marry, and you're legally pureblood again, and probably the Rosier Heir again too. Am I wrong?"

Aldon tilted his head, considering the theory. It was a good one, if it wasn't for a few other minor details. "An interesting hypothesis. Except that I was revealed by _summoning Justice_ for the Arcturus Rigel Black trial, which certainly did not go the way that either the Ministry or the SOW Party wanted. And I knew who Harriett Potter was, long before everyone else. I even swore a blood oath to keep her secrets, in the Triwizard Tournament. How do you explain that?"

Diggory sat up, relaxing, a bright grin spreading across his face. "I don't need to – that's why I brought you _here_, to one of my wellsprings of power. I have sharper abilities, here. It's not your Truth-Speaking talent, but I can tell that you're relaxed, that you aren't stressed by my questions, which means you're _probably_ not lying. And just as you've pointed out, there have been enough inconsistencies about you over the years, that would make me question your allegiance to the SOW Party anyway. I'll still Obliviate you if you show _any_ sign of being an undercover Ministry agent, mind."

"As you should," Aldon replied agreeably, leaning forward to better look at Diggory. "I would have made me swear. Or take Veritaserum. But you know your magic best. In any case – what can you tell me about Saoirse Riordan?"

"Not that fast, Blake," Diggory replied, a little amused. "First, why do you want to know?"

Aldon paused, looking Diggory over, evaluating the risk quickly. He didn't foresee much risk here – Diggory and his father both worked for the Ministry, but they were in low- and mid-level positions, and he knew well that Diggory engaged in what the Ministry still called _dangerous illegal magical practices_. That was why he was here, to ask about another group that practiced very similar, if not the same, dangerous illegal magical practices. "Saiorse Riordan is one of Archie's allies," he said slowly, cautiously. "They're, as a group, behind _Bridge_. As am I, in a roundabout sort of way – I edit, but I am not a regular contributor. And if this makes its way to the Ministry's ears, Diggory, there are spells much worse than Obliviate."

Diggory chuckled. "Empty threat. You're in one of _my_ wellsprings of power, so you couldn't, not here at least. Fortunately for you, I like _Bridge, _and I'm not about to turn you in."

"It was a risk." Aldon shrugged diffidently. "A calculated one. In any case – Saoirse Riordan? Do you know her?"

"Depends what you mean by _know_." Diggory shifted his head one way, then the other, in thought. "I've heard of her. I think I have to go back to the beginning to explain things though, do you mind?"

"Not at all." Aldon shook his head. "The more information I have, the better. I'm a greedy bastard, Diggory, haven't you noticed?"

Diggory laughed. "Fine. Then – a history lesson. You know, History of Magic at school was really such a useless class, focusing on things like the goblin rebellions, or the Giant Wars, or the foundation of the International Confederation of Wizards. Not saying that those aren't important areas of study, but they're so specific and niche – they really should be left to later years, to people who are truly interested in the topic. What they should be teaching is the formulation of Wizarding Britain as we know it, with the Conquests, the passage of the Statute of Secrecy, how the Wizengamot works, the things that have a direct impact on us today."

"In my opinion," Aldon replied, resting his chin on one had, elbow propped on his crossed legs, "there is no incentive for anyone in a position of power to ensure that the populace is educated on those very topics. Most noble children are taught the processes of the Wizengamot and its history at home – obviously, it's a bit of a skewed version of our own successes, but what history is not?"

"Well, let me tell you, then, of a history that hasn't been a success." Diggory sighed, looking away. "The Conquest. William the Conqueror brought his men, Muggles and wizards alike, over the English Channel in 1066, and he burned and conquered his way through England. We say it like it's that simple, like it was just that one year, but even in England, it wasn't. Pockets of resistance held out straight through 1070 – Peverell, the bastion of the West, didn't fall until 1068. Ollivander went down that same year, and Queenscove, the last of them, surrendered at the end of 1069. But three places currently part of Wizarding Britain didn't fall, then: Wales, Scotland and Ireland."

Aldon nodded. He knew a bit about that, because Diggory had told them about the Welsh, in the Triwizard Tournament. He didn't know anything about the other two.

"Three Celtic wizarding nations on the Isles." Diggory paused, looking around his grove of trees. "You know, I think a big part of the reason why this history gets suppressed at Hogwarts, is that so much of it is intertwined with Muggle history. Wizards, we like to pretend like we're separate, like we're _apart _from Muggles, like we always have been. They focus on the parts of history that are obviously magical, like the goblin rebellions and Giant Wars, or they talk about how we were treated by the Muggles around us, like the witch-burnings, because it suits them and it's comforting to think that we're different, that we're _better_. But really, until the passage of the Statute of Secrecy in 1689, we were just a part of the wider world. Muggle history is very much _our_ history, too."

"You may not be wrong, there," Aldon conceded, tilting his head a little in acknowledgement. "I wouldn't know. You're telling me about Muggle history as well as Wizarding history then, I take it."

"That's right." Diggory looked back at him and sighed, a somewhat sorrowful look on his face. "I told you about Wales. Edward the First of England, also Edward Longshanks, the Hammer of the Scots, defeated Llywelyn ap Gruffudd in 1283, leading to the conquest of Wales. My people – we rebelled, over and over again, through the fifteenth century. As part of their campaigns, they forced us to stop speaking our language, to stop communing with the elements – all of this was intended to strip us of our traditional magical powers, of our birthright. They forced us to go to Hogwarts, where we would adapt to wand use, where we would assimilate, and in Wales, Blake, let me tell you: they succeeded."

Aldon blinked. "But you..."

"I'm one of a very few left." Cedric shrugged. "In Wales, we're counted in dozens, shrinking more every generation, and we're weak. I'm not powerful, as traditional wizards go; none of us are. I'm much better at wand magic, at school magic, than I am at the traditional methods, and it's weaker the farther I get from Wales. I trip over the language, and while the elements listen to me, they laugh at me, they kind of listen to me in a joking sort of way. I don't commune enough with them, so I can't make them do anything specific, they just... well, you saw in the Tournament. They'll help me, but they mostly do what they want."

He held up three fingers, a wry sort of smile on his face as he folded one finger down to two. "And then there were two great Celtic wizarding nations left: Scotland, and Ireland. The Scots – the Scots fought hard. Edward Longshanks became known as the Hammer of the Scots because of his campaigns in Scotland, but the key difference between Wales and Scotland was that the Scots _won_. They bloody _won_, and for many years Scottish witches and wizards were allowed to go to Hogwarts as _day students, _did you know? They would Portkey or fly in every morning and head home every afternoon after classes, blending in wand use with their traditional magic. The Scots... well, they fell for other reasons, political ones, mainly. The Muggle English Queen died in 1603 without heirs, and her closest relation was the King of Scotland, so Muggle England and Scotland became a lot more intertwined. It was only a matter of time before the Wizarding world followed suit. Non-traditional, wand-using mages started moving north, driving traditional Scottish witches and wizards farther into the Highlands. The Scots lost their right to attend Hogwarts as day students, since there wasn't any principled reason for the difference anymore, and over time, they just started assimilating. I can't really tell you much more – the Scots have always been a little apart from us in Wales, with their clans and clan politics and the like."

"Clans?" Aldon frowned, leaning forward in question. He hadn't heard the term. "Er - what clans?"

Diggory grimaced. Something that Diggory wasn't supposed to tell him, or was it something else? Aldon mentally made a note of it. He would need to find out more about the clans, if Diggory didn't tell him.

"The clans…" Diggory shook his head. "Well, they were the traditional rulers of the Scottish witches and wizards. I don't know how big they still are, or how organized, or even how many there still are – a few of the bigger ones were granted nobility and have seats in the Wizengamot, but not all of them. You'll know the MacMillans, the MacLaggens and MacLeods – they're Clan Lairds as well as Lords of the Wizengamot, but they aren't the only ones. You'd have to find a sworn Clan kin to talk to you, Blake – I can't tell you more than that."

"Can't, or won't?" Aldon asked. His gift hadn't triggered, but all that told him was that Diggory believed he couldn't tell him more.

Diggory shot him a wry look. "Can't. I know they exist, but as I said – the clans have little to do with the Welsh. Try Ernest MacMillan, he's a bit pompous, but he's Clan MacMillan."

"He's the undeclared MacMillan Heir," Aldon replied slowly, trying to place the face. Hufflepuff, he remembered. Aldon had never spoken to him.

Diggory shook his head, again. "Clan Lairds," he said, as if that explained everything, and maybe it did. The MacMillans traditionally did not declare their Heirs, and neither did either of other two named families. Indeed, more than once over the last century, the Lordship of those families had passed to people that no one in the nobility expected: cousins, adoptive sons or daughters, nieces and nephews. Even the current Lord MacMillan was apparently only adopted into the family. Aldon would have to think about it more – maybe this wasn't just an odd Scottish tic, maybe there was something else behind it. Diggory sighed, holding up a hand with two fingers, and folding another finger down. "So that's Scotland, and we're down to one – Ireland."

Aldon took a deep breath, putting the matter of Scotland aside for the moment. He would try to write to MacMillan, maybe, but he didn't see any reason why MacMillan would reply. He would think on it further, later. "Ireland. When did Ireland fall, then?"

"The Siege of Kinsale in 1601." Diggory looked away, his face turning up to the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. "They had been fighting invasions from the English, from the Normans, for a few hundred years before then, but always managed to drive them off. Irish witches and wizards didn't come to Hogwarts until after Kinsale – they were trained at home, with Muggleborns being fostered with wizarding families. They are… to this day, the Irish still rebel regularly, at least once every few decades. The Ministry is harsh there, especially on the language laws. They think, in Wales, in Scotland, that we don't know the old ways anymore, that we're tamed, and maybe they're right. But in Ireland, the traditional ways are still alive, and they're still trying to stamp them out. Being caught speaking Gaelic in Wizarding Ireland, that's a hanging offense – not even the honour of a magical execution. But the Irish still fight, and they're organized, especially in an area they call the Gaeltacht. They call themselves the Tuatha Dé Danaan, or the folk of the goddess Danu. The Tuatha Dé, for short."

"The Tuatha Dé," Aldon repeated, mentally taking note. "And Saoirse Riordan – she's all of sixteen, maybe seventeen. She's one of them?"

Diggory shifted, thinking about it. "More than that, I think," he said finally. "So, about our magic – I've said that I'm a fairly weak traditional wizard, haven't I?"

"You did." Aldon nodded for him to go on. "You don't speak the language often enough and you don't commune with the elements enough?"

"Yes," Diggory confirmed. "Magical power – it's calculated differently, in the traditional ways. For our school magic, there are the colours, Lord-level, Mastery-level, and so on. There's a direct connection between how much magic you have in your core, and the amount of magic you can cast, and core size is at least somewhat genetic. Powerful witches and wizards produce powerful children. Traditional magic doesn't work that way."

Diggory turned, looking at Aldon as his pace picked up, his voice becoming more direct, instead of thoughtful, meandering. "The first thing to know about traditional magic is that there's no relationship between your core size and your power in traditional magic. If you have magic and speak Gaelic, you can start cultivating a relationship with the elements, you can find your own wellsprings of power, and you can start asking the elements to help you. It's not hereditary. The elements, though… it's a relationship, and they just _like _some people more than others."

"And Saiorse Riordan…?" Aldon prodded.

"Saiorse Riordan isn't very powerful by school magic standards, but she's very powerful by traditional measures," Diggory replied, voice quiet. "She can call on the elements as far away as _America_, I've heard – I don't think she's just _one of _the Tuatha Dé. I think she's one of their high priestesses."

Aldon paused, thinking it over slowly. That was useful to know. Saoirse Riordan, then, was someone that he _absolutely_ wanted to keep on Archie's side. She had a position of power, and if the Irish were still rebelling, that meant there was _enough_ of them to rebel. That was good. "How many people are in the Tuatha Dé, do you think?"

Diggory studied him carefully. "Interesting question, Blake. I'm not sure, but more than the Welsh. A few hundred, I would guess. That's all you're getting from me, though. Your turn, I think."

"My turn?" Aldon tilted his head, considering. He very consciously didn't reach for his wand or knife.

"You've joined with Archie, and from what I hear, the new Lord Queenscove, and you're, in a roundabout sort of way, behind _Bridge_." Diggory smiled slightly, a sharp look in his blue eyes. "Why? What's _your_ end goal?"

Aldon paused, then he half-smiled. He couldn't say _burning it all down_, but he could come close, without saying so outright. "A complete revolution of Wizarding Britain, I think. Widespread enfranchisement, maybe even eliminating the nobility entirely. Repeal of the blood discrimination laws, every single one of them. Flipping the Ministry upside down. What do _you_ want, Diggory?"

There was a long pause, as Diggory thought about it, and then he smiled. "I want the laws against traditional casting gone," he said. "I want my people to _live_, Blake. I don't want to watch this slow decline – I want to teach my children Welsh, I want to speak Welsh openly at home every day, I want to send my children to Welsh-language Muggle schools before they start at Hogwarts, and I want to do it without giving up my wizarding status. I want the Cymru to produce traditional witches and wizards as powerful as Saoirse Riordan."

Aldon nodded slowly, considering, then he smirked. "I can try to work that in."

"And if you do, I can _try_ to speak to my countrymen – the ones I know of, anyway." Diggory nodded in reply, then he stood up, stretching. The sun was setting, and it was getting darker, but Diggory didn't seem bothered. "I'll walk you out. The elements might mislead you, otherwise."

"No names, Diggory," Aldon warned him quietly. "Plausible deniability. This conversation never happened. I don't want to know any names."

"Call me Cedric," Diggory replied, with a quick, relaxed smile over his shoulder. "Conspirators should be on first name terms, don't you think?"

If the problem of the Welsh nation were not interesting and intriguing enough, a great, spectral dog appeared in Aldon's office a few days later, when he was working late. His own ACD had just arrived from America, Francesca having asked Faleron to drive her into town so she could airmail it to him in London, and he was looking down at an absolutely _beautiful_ device. He had never seen anything so beautiful – the panel on his ACD was bigger than the one he had seen on John's, covering nearly his entire forearm, but the plastic had been molded for comfort and the whole thing had a blue tint – probably because he had mentioned to Francesca that he liked blue, actually. It was so _beautiful_, and her letter, with its slanted script, included a diagram to show him where he would need to replace the batteries. She had integrated the microcontroller with his specially designed ward, a fairly simple one of only three woven defensive spells. He was so _excited_ to try it and test how long the cast would hold.

He didn't even see the dog at first, reading and re-reading Francesca's letter, checking for all the smallest details. He had understood it the first time, but he wanted to be _sure_. And her handwriting was slanted, a different cursive than he had seen before, and there was something about the way she made her fs…

"Aldon." He heard the Lord Black's voice behind him, breaking into his thoughts, and he was up, wand out and turned around before he even realized what had spoken. A Patronus – the Lord Black's. "Er, would you come over to Grimmauld Place? Right now? There's something you ought to see, I think."

The Patronus sat there, waiting for a reply, its silver tongue lolling out of its mouth as it panted. Aldon stared at it. What an unusual request, and it wasn't like the Lord Black to be Patronus-calling him. He would consider himself to be on decent terms with the man, but they weren't close, despite the Lord Black writing to check in on him, every so often. Aldon wasn't sure what to make of these letters, but it would be rude to let them go unanswered, so he wrote back short notes, simply stating that he was fine. A Patronus-call, however, was different. The Lord Black wouldn't call him over for just anything, as oddly as he went about it. "Yes, I'm on my way."

The dog dipped its head, acknowledging the message, then it turned on its tail and disappeared.

Aldon sighed, putting his ACD away in the box that it had come in, with the letter. He could play with it tomorrow, and for now, this puzzle was more intriguing. He reached for his coat, pulling it on, making sure his keycard was in his pocket, and headed out the door.

The City was quiet enough, after working hours, that there were places where Apparition was possible. He did a wide tour of the lobby to his building, eventually choosing a blind spot in the fourth row of elevators. It was a terrible spot, normally, but it was late enough, almost eight at night, and the chances of anyone coming downstairs now was unlikely. He drew a rune for silence in the air, one of the convenient ones that he had used last year on his escapade to break Harriett Potter out of Hogwarts, then Apparated. If he did it quickly enough after the casting of the silence spell, it should, in theory, block the noise of Apparition from sounding. He wasn't sure and needed to test it further, but it was far faster to Apparate than to take the Underground.

He appeared in the shadowed corner close to the gates of Grimmauld Place, and let himself in, ignoring the lime-green English garden snakes that slithered up to him as he always did. Even as a Slytherin, he found the Lord Black's choice of pets to be disconcerting, a little vulgar. He supposed the Lord Black didn't have the space for the more usual pets among the nobility, but English garden snakes, really?

He half-expected the Lord Black to open the door to Grimmauld Place before he even got to the top of the steps, but nothing. He hesitated, then reached to try the door. The Lord Black would have known that Aldon had gotten there when he crossed the wards, so he could consider it an open invitation, he thought.

"Lord Black?" he called out, in the front landing to the townhouse.

"In the kitchen, Aldon! And it's just Sirius, how many times do I have to tell you?"

Aldon heard the sound of laughter, the thud of a mug being set down on the table. Curious, he made his way to the kitchen.

Tobias MacLean, one of Archie's invited allies from the summer, was sitting there. Aldon had resolved, he remembered, to find out what exactly was on the man's arm – he had fidgeted too much at their summer meeting, planning _Bridge_, to remain inconspicuous. He was laughing, a mug of tea in hand, beside a Ravenclaw girl that he recognized from school.

She had been in his year, which was likely the only reason he remembered her name. He had never spoken to her.

"Cameron," he said, frowning as he pulled a seat out at the table and sat down. "What are you doing here?"

"Blake," she replied with an easy grin, though her voice was a little pointed. She was a redhead, though her hair was wild and frizzy, untamed. "I'm on the hunt for someone to talk to about some certain changes we'd like to see throughout Wizarding Britain. Toby, here, says that Archie Black would be the one to talk to, but given that he's in America and the Clans have sent us _now_, I am told that I will have to settle for _you_."

It was as if the world tilted forwards – Aldon went from polite puzzlement to sharp attention. He hadn't devised an appropriate trap for Tobias MacLean yet, or to get Ernest MacMillan to give him certain answers that he wanted. "The _Clans_, you say?" Aldon leaned forward, aiming to echo her tone – friendly, open, but a little mocking. Time to gamble. "Which ones? Just yours, or a consortium?"

"Ooh, you are good. Who did you get to talk?" Cameron leaned back, stretching her arms over her head, eyebrows raised. "None of _mine_, I assume. Clan Cameron trains its kin better than that. Bet it was MacLaggen, Cormac's always had a big mouth and no brain. Toby, thoughts?"

"Not my kin." Tobias yawned, seemingly bored. "I'm new to this thing though, Quinn, you know that. I only swore my fealty this summer, but my laird puts me through my paces."

"Winning a place as emissary within six months? That reeks of desperation. You tell the Laird Boyd that, now." Cameron smirked, tucking a frizzy red curl behind her ear. Aldon was tucking pieces of information away as quickly as they spoke. Cameron was emissary of Clan Cameron, while Tobias MacLean had joined, it sounded, Clan Boyd over the summer. And there was Clan MacMillan, Clan MacLaggen, and Clan MacLeod, the three clans whose Lairds also held Wizengamot seats. And the Clans weren't a cohesive whole – Cameron had insulted two already.

"To the contrary, Quinn, I was selected as emissary because I, unlike you, actually know the people in this little conspiracy. I'm better connected than you are, Hogwarts or not. Bet you never exchanged a word with Aldon before today." Tobias looked at Aldon, an invitation on his face to play along, then he blinked and grinned. "Look, Quinn, you gave him more than he knew to begin with. He didn't know about _either_ of our clans before today. Whoever he got the introduction from, it wasn't a Scot."

Aldon scowled good-naturedly, thinking quickly. He wanted as much information out of these two as he could possibly get, without showing that he didn't know much. Three noble clans, and at least two more. Did they ever unite? He should have asked Cedric more. "Really, though. Is it just the two of you, Clans Cameron and Boyd, or are you speaking for a larger consortium, today?"

Did the clans even get along well enough to assign an emissary of one to speak for multiple clans? Cameron had come _with_ Tobias, so as much as they might carp at each other, they had to have alliances at least sometimes. It was a guess.

"It's a good thing we got directions to tell him everything he needs to know, isn't it, Toby?" Cameron laughed, pushing her chair back and standing to give Aldon a very proper curtsey, in the appropriate noble wizarding style. Aldon immediately stood, returning with a bow – only thirty degrees, this time. He wouldn't give an inch today, not even in etiquette. She could remark on it, or not.

She didn't. "Introductions, then. My name is Quinn Cameron, and I am the official emissary of Clan Cameron. Today, I also speak for Clans MacAllister and Ross. And you're Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, Truth-Speaker. And you know Tobias MacLean, official emissary of Clan Boyd, already. I apologize for him – he hasn't learned any of the formalities, yet."

"My laird finds the formalities to be a useless waste of time." Tobias sighed, fishing around in his pocket, pulling out a bottle of scotch – a good one, Aldon recognized – and setting it on the table. "But he did tell me to give you this, as a sign of our goodwill."

"Lowlanders." Cameron rolled her eyes, sitting back down at the kitchen table. "Not even standing. Rude, Toby."

"Fuck you, Quinn."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Aldon interrupted, a little taken aback – Cameron didn't seem to be insulted in the least, merely shrugging it off. "None of the Wizengamot Clan Lairds wished to join, then?"

He wasn't entirely sure what to call them, the three Clan Lairds who also had Wizengamot seats, but he affected their accent anyway. If his ignorance showed, it was a minor point.

Cameron frowned, a dark look coming across her face. "Them," she said, and her voice was cool, a little mocking. "They don't like to play, do they? The system works for _them_, so the rest of us, we're only so much chaff in the wind. Fortunately, we outnumber them."

"With only four Clans?" Aldon raised an eyebrow. It was a risk – maybe there were only seven clans, in which case his question would only show his ignorance. But if there were more than seven, then it was an inconspicuous and useful way of finding out if there were more. "Cutting it close, aren't we?"

"The McKinnons are thinking it over, still, but they'll come around." Cameron waved a hand casually. "They always do. They're just a little slow – methodical, they call it. Then it'll be us, the five non-noble Clans, against the three noble Clans, just like it always is. One of these days, the Clanmeet is just going to dissolve in flames."

Tobias started laughing, a genuine laugh of good humour. "And somehow, Quinn, you'll be in the middle of it, won't you? I'm just an emissary – I'll be hiding under the table."

Cameron looked at Aldon and the Lord Black, a delighted glint in her eye as she invited them to share in the joke. "Remember this moment for later: when the spells start flying, Clan Boyd is going to be _hiding under the table_."

The Lord Black burst into laughter, and even Aldon couldn't help a small smile. Toby merely rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't seem to be offended – perhaps he was used to this treatment. "We should get on with it, Quinn. Instead of just telling him things that he _clearly_ already knows."

Cameron sighed, reaching for her mug of tea. "Ach, you're right there. So, Blake – to business! I am here on behalf of the four of the Clans, hopefully soon to be five. We like your ideas about widespread emancipation, and we want to help."

Aldon paused, his core triggering. She was lying, but not entirely. She had told it well enough that if it wasn't for his gift, he would have taken it at face value. "That's not all you want. Tell me the truth, Cameron."

Tobias laughed again. "He _is_ a Truth-Speaker, Quinn."

Cameron, on the other hand, tilted her head and stared at Aldon for a minute or two. Despite the smile on her face, there was something serious in her gaze, an assessing look that Aldon found far more interesting that her thorny jokes. "Well," she said, and her voice was different, slower, more thoughtful as she drew the word out. "That's harder to say, isn't it? We certainly want widespread emancipation – it's a good start, for us. We want a bigger seat for Scotland at the table, and we want more attention paid to Scottish interests. But…"

"But?"

Cameron exchanged a look with Tobias, who nodded solemnly. "Really," she said quietly, "We don't want to be ruled by the Wizengamot at all. We don't want to be a part of Wizarding Britain – we're Scottish, we have always _been _Scottish, and we want our independence."

Aldon studied her for a minute in return, leaning back in his chair. "How can I _possibly _offer you that, Cameron, even assuming we _achieve _widespread emancipation? I don't know what you think we are, but right now, we're a _newspaper_. A _free_ newspaper of little prestige."

"A free newspaper that's getting _attention_, in the right places." Cameron corrected, then she quirked a small smile. "Besides, Blake – _Bridge _is not where this is going to end, is it? You were Aldon _Rosier_, pureblood, noble. Your father, the Lord Rosier, is known for his ruthlessness in the business sphere, and you've shadowed him for what, two years? _Bridge _is just a step for you. Widespread emancipation, that's a step for us. Maybe that'll be enough – maybe when we have that, we'll be able to table an act for Scottish independence, and our people will have their say, and maybe that'll be enough."

"Or maybe there's a transition stage, where we're autonomous within the greater Wizarding Britain, almost like Muggle Scotland is now," Toby suggested thoughtfully. "Still part of the Union, but with our own Parliament, our own laws. To be honest, Aldon, we don't know what our independence looks like, yet."

"But we're here on the ground floor because Toby believes in Archie Black, and Archie Black, apparently, believes in _you_. We're here, offering our help, in the hope that when you achieve what you want, you'll remember and help us in turn." Quinn nodded, serious.

Aldon thought about it for a minute. It was a hard ask, but on the other hand, they weren't _asking_ for a lot, right now. They were gambling, they and the four clans they represented, and he didn't know where things went from here. They had _Bridge_, but the time wasn't right for anything else. He had some ideas about how the ACD could be used to push things forward too, but for now, it was too early. People didn't _care_, yet. Archie needed to make people care, he needed to show a sheltered people what they were missing, and he needed to show that what they were missing was worth more than what they had. Bridge was making waves, but it was still too early.

But say he did succeed – say that they did turn the world upside down. He could already see some problems. "Is that what the MacLaggens, MacMillans and MacLeods will say? And what about Hogwarts?"

Cameron shrugged, a little annoyed, but Aldon didn't think it was at him, or anything he had said. "Leave the MacLaggens, the MacMillans and the MacLeods to the Clanmeet. We do outnumber them, and that's a clan matter. As for Hogwarts, you _are_ aware that not every country has its own school, right? In Europe, it's mainly divided by language groups – the Wizarding Nordic Union, for example, send their children to Schwarzenstein in Germany for school. And it isn't as if Hogwarts hasn't existed in a world where students came from different countries before, either, because Hogwarts predates the union of Wizarding Britain. We can work out terms on Hogwarts."

Aldon nodded, letting it go. It was so far away, and if Cameron thought she could deal with the three Clans that also had Wizengamot seats as a clan matter, then he would leave it at that. "Very well," he replied slowly. "What, then, can you _offer_ us?"

"Mainly?" Cameron tilted her head, with a secretive sort of smile. She put her arm on the table, then pulled up her sleeve. Her forearm had four scars, much like oath scars, but tinted a cool blue. Beside her, Tobias sighed, and pulled up his own sleeve – he had only one, but Aldon recognized it for what it was.

_Fealty_ scars. Tobias had chosen his words for a reason, it wasn't simply an odd turn of phrase. No one in the Wizarding Britain did formal fealty oaths anymore, not since the end of the feudal era, not since the days before the Book of Copper, into the time of the Book of Silver – or, he hadn't thought anyone did. It was archaic, brutal, but he saw the utility immediately. It was a blood bind, tying the person to their sworn family, creating a blood link.

"Manpower," Cameron finished, rolling her sleeve back down to cover her scars. "People in the right places. Some of our kin have been passing _Bridge_ on through Hogwarts, through the Ministry – they've also been passing information back to us. We'll provide those to you, too, sources for _Bridge_."

"They're bigger than you would expect, Aldon," Tobias volunteered, a little unexpectedly, throwing a small grin at Cameron. "Not just Scots. See, the British International Association was always puzzled by the fact that there were no Scottish halfbloods. It was a weird thing – there were Scottish _Muggleborns, _but no Scottish halfbloods. The answer is that, once blood fealty is sworn, it masks all the standard identification spells – a halfblood or Muggleborn is protected by the blood of their sworn family. I'd read as a Boyd, a pureblood, now."

"We take care of our own, and then some." Cameron sniffed a little, leaning forward a little. "No Scottish witch or wizard needs schooling abroad, not if I have anything to say about it. No British one either, if they can get in contact with us and are willing to swear their fealty, though few outside of Scotland know much about us to do that. But we actively reach out to Scottish-born halfbloods, to the extent we can – not Muggleborns, unfortunately, because even if the Lady Ross can get the names for us, it's a little much to approach Muggle parents and say, oh, but if your child swears fealty to the clan for the rest of their lives, they can go to Hogwarts. Sorry, Toby."

"Ilvermorny was a good school," Tobias shrugged. "No hard feelings, Quinn. So, Aldon – that's what we've been instructed to offer. What say you?"

Aldon thought about it for a few minutes, but there really was little to think about. They were making a gamble, and it sounded like they were taking care of some of the hardest tasks for themselves. There was only benefit for _Bridge, _for Archie's alliance, if he agreed. They were offering their support, and that was what was important. They could deal with the problem of Scottish independence when they got there. "I agree. I will reach out to Archie, and we'll go from there. In the meantime – tell me the news from Hogwarts and the Ministry. Is there anything important that we should be publishing?"

Quinn smiled, cat-like, blinking blue eyes slowly. "Many things," she said, with a hint of relish. "To begin, Prosecutor Umbridge has proven to be _incredibly_ unpopular at Hogwarts. We'll put together an exposé to you next week – codename, hmm. How about _kelpie_, in honour of everyone's favourite Scottish kelpie, the Loch Ness monster?"

XXX

Hogwarts wasn't the same without her.

Rigel Black – no, _Harry Potter_ – belonged at Hogwarts with him, beside him. It wasn't that she had ever spoken much, but it was shocking the impact that she had _had_, as part of their little group, with only her presence. He missed her soft, reserved laughter, he missed walking to classes, between classes, with her on one side and Pansy on the other. He and Pansy did most of the talking, had always done, but Harry had always been _there_, with them, listening, getting into trouble even as the two of them tried to watch over her. Without her, it was just him and Pansy, more often than not; without her, their group had shrunk, not just to five, but to four. Nott, now, was not welcome at any table that Draco sat at, and their dorm, just Draco and Blaise and Nott, was stone cold, awkward, unfriendly.

But it wasn't just that. It wasn't just that she was _missing, _the shrunk dorm room with only three beds and disappeared name off the name plate doing nothing to hide her absence; there was more to it than that, and the impact of what she had done, of how her cousin, _Archie Black_ had handled the scandal, and the appearance of a free paper called _Bridge_ spread cracks among their friends that Draco could never have expected.

Theo was no longer a part of their group, but Millicent and Blaise kept more to themselves or to their other friends, too. Millicent, somehow, had become an avid reader of _Bridge_, finding a source for the paper herself and spending at least one day a week reading it and corroborating it with the week's _Daily_ _Prophets_. Draco tried to stop her – he tried pointing out all the ways that the new paper, with its strong focus on blood equality and widespread emancipation and promotion of Muggle culture, was ridiculous, obscene, only to be met with a cool, passive, resistance.

"I think it's interesting," she said, not meeting his eyes, when Draco mocked the column on Muggle culture. That day, it was a review of some _movie_ called _Babe_, about a _pig_. A pig! Did Muggles really have nothing else to entertain them other than pigs? What was it about movies, which were just _moving pictures__,_ that was so interesting, anyway? The Wizarding world had had moving pictures for centuries! But Millicent simply buried her head in the paper, ignoring him.

"In my opinion, the economic analysis provided was very good," she replied calmly, when Draco tried to lampoon the report of how the new trade embargoes put on by Wizarding Canada and Wizarding Australia after the passage of the Marriage Law would affect Wizarding Britain. Canada and Australia were only two small countries – how could they have any impact? And certainly, if the embargoes were important, the _Daily Prophet _would have focused on them more instead of mentioning them only on page 7, an afterthought to the resounding success of the Marriage Law. Happy couples and announcements had littered the papers all week! But instead, here Millicent was, reading an article written by a nobody who couldn't even put their _name_ on it, merely going by _otter. _"It isn't going to help the wand shortage – Wizarding Canada provides twenty-eight percent of the world's wandwood, and Billywigs are only found in Australia. I guess Professor Snape will need to find a replacement for Wit-Sharpening Potions in our curriculum this year, and you're going to have to head to France to get any Fizzing Whizzbees."

"Draco, why do you care what I read?" Millicent snapped finally, one day, a Muggle book called _Northern Lights_ open in her hands. It had arrived in the owl post that day, shipped in a package from her uncle at the ICW, disguised as an international relations textbook. She wasn't supposed to have it – Professor Umbridge had banned all literature produced by Muggles or _halfbreeds_ in an edict not even two weeks ago, and yet here Millicent was, running the risk. "I'm enjoying it – isn't that enough? Why do I have to like only the things you like? Why do I need to explain my choices to you?"

"Millie…" Draco tried, his voice almost a little pleading. "I'm just saying, it's banned, and surely there are more worthwhile things—"

"But it's _my_ time I'm wasting, so why should you care?" Millicent blew out an annoyed breath. "I'm going to read in my room. I'll see you later, Draco."

He could have turned her in for it, but he didn't. Even if he was a _prefect_, and one of Professor Umbridge's favourite students, Millicent was his _friend_. He didn't know what she thought she was doing, and breaking rules was unlike her, but he wouldn't turn her in for it.

Blaise, too, was unusually crabby. This, Draco thought, had much to do with a certain blonde Hufflepuff, who, while certainly still _dating_ him, wasn't _sharing_ things with him anymore.

"She just… sometimes, she giggles, says she has to go do something, and runs off," Blaise confided, deeply upset, head in hands. "And when I try to go after her, she just… I get her scent, but she's gone. I tracked her to the front gates once, so I think she's sneaking out of school."

"Do you think she is maybe… seeing someone else?" Draco tried, a little hesitant. He didn't want to imagine how that would go – he had images of Vesuvius. Blaise was _tetchy_ about Abbott.

Blaise's eyes flashed, but he stayed calm. "Don't think I haven't considered that, Draco, but no, I don't think that's it. Even if she didn't know what I am to her, which she _does _since she's from a shifter family, I haven't scented any other men on her. And, believe me, I have checked more than once. And gotten my scent all over her in the process, just in case."

"I didn't need to know that, Blaise, thank you," Draco replied, shaking his head, and Blaise smirked proudly.

Draco suspected that his friend and Abbott were sleeping together now, in contravention of about a dozen school rules and two separate Ministry edicts, put into force by Professor Umbridge. By turns, Blaise would be overjoyed, delighted, on top of the world, then depressed, desperate, yearning. Draco didn't mention it – just like Millicent, Blaise was his _friend_, and he just hoped that his friend knew what he was doing.

Pansy, too – of all his friends, it was Pansy who had changed the least, but there was still something just a little bit different about her. She kept more of her thoughts to herself now, and he suspected that she was borrowing Millicent's copy of _Bridge_ to read sometimes, because he heard her comment on otter's economic analysis of the new trade sanctions. When Draco brought it up, she merely listened to him, nodded as if she agreed, and changed the subject. She was often worried, now, the feeling echoing off her in endless waves of uncertainty, and he thought she was worried about her marriage prospects. She was still declining marriage proposals, at least one every few weeks, but the pressure was on. She was sixteen, and many of her yearmates had already secured arrangements. Draco, as a boy, could stand to wait a few more years if he wanted, but Pansy could not, especially when her husband would be the next Lord Parkinson.

He knew by now that his father had put in an offer for her, but she was apparently sitting on it. Waiting for what, Draco didn't know. They didn't love each other, not in that sense, but neither of them had dreamed of a love marriage. They suited each other well, and the union would bring benefits for them both. Love could come later, and he was a little concerned that Pansy hadn't mentioned the Malfoy proposal on the table to him. She had to know about it, and it hadn't been _declined_, and yet she didn't say anything about it to him. And it was too awkward for him, the potential groom, to ask. It was a formal offer – she had to respond formally, and it was improper for him to try to sway her one way or the other at this point.

On top of everything else, there was Professor Umbridge – Prosecutor Umbridge, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, who had tasked with uncovering the culprit of the Hogwarts Express attack and who seemed determined to pin it, somehow, on the Headmaster. Draco thought that Professor Umbridge was barking mad, but that was a very private view. Certainly, his father had told him not to interfere with Professor Umbridge's investigation, and most of the _edicts_ she issued on a regular basis had nothing to do with him, anyway. Other than the fact that the list delivered to his rooms, for him to enforce as a prefect, grew longer and longer each week.

He glanced over his latest list, his eyes drawn, as usual, to the more ridiculous rules.

_Edict No. 1: The Ministry of Magic may, in times of necessity, assign a High Inquisitor to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (hereinafter "Hogwarts"), for the purposes of investigating a crime._

_Edict No. 4: Witches and wizards studying at Hogwarts shall not be within six inches of each other._

_Edict No. 7: The High Inquisitor shall have the authority to review all extracurricular activities at Hogwarts._

_Edict No. 12: The High Inquisitor shall have the authority to detain any students or staff for questioning regarding potential illicit activity, without a warrant._

_Edict No. 13: All students and staff shall provide information to the High Inquisitor about suspected unlawful activity._

_Edict No. 19: All joke and prank products, regardless of origin, are prohibited._

_Edict No. 20: Witches and wizards studying at Hogwarts are not to be within eight inches of each other._

_Edict No. 21: Items which are of no educational value are banned._

_Edict No. 28: Wizards shall keep their hands outside their cloaks at all times._

_Edict No. 31: Students shall maintain proper dress and decorum at all times._

_Edict No. 33: Literature written by non-wizards or halfbreeds is prohibited._

_Edict No. 38: Correspondence into Hogwarts shall be reviewed by the High Inquisitor prior to delivery for illegal activity and contraband._

_Edict No. 39: The High Inquisitor shall have the authority to search the student dormitories for illegal activity and contraband._

For Draco, who rarely bothered to enforce these rules, most of these edicts were an annoyance and little else. He had been questioned once on the Hogwarts Express attack, but Professor Umbridge seemed to be satisfied with his answers and had left it at that. With a formal proposal issued to Pansy, it was only _polite_ that he keep his distance from other witches and wizards, and with Rigel – Harry – gone, there wasn't anyone he wanted to invite closer anyway. He didn't play pranks, so the edict about joke and prank products was completely irrelevant, just as he didn't read any books by Muggles or halfbreeds. He didn't know anyone who did – other than, apparently, Millicent. Whatever the edict might say, Draco's correspondence arrived to him with the Malfoy seal intact and untouched, and his dorm hadn't been searched.

He knew that others hadn't been so lucky. The Weasleys, especially the Weasley Twins, had been hit multiple times, not that it seemed to make much of a difference to them. If anything, they had reacted to the pressure by throwing bigger and better pranks – one day, a portable swamp appeared in the Charms corridor, creating a huge inconvenience for everyone, and another, a series of fireworks, nearly alive, had been thrown throughout the Great Hall. They were clever enough not to be pinned on it, but they were dragged in for questioning by Professor Umbridge at least once a week.

The other Gryffindors fared little better. Ron Weasley had been pulled in for questioning no less than four times, his sister, Ginny, five. Even Longbottom had been questioned twice and had come out of the second time in tears, his hand bleeding. Their dorms were the first ones searched, when Edict No. 39 came into force. The Hufflepuffs, according to Blaise, had been hit too, and Abbott's dorm had been among those searched. Abbott had pulled one of her brief disappearing acts after that, but she had not, to Draco's knowledge, been questioned more than once.

For Draco, indeed, the most annoying part about Professor Umbridge and her Edicts was that his Duelling Club had been disbanded. And then he had been permitted to restart it, but only with _conditions_.

"Professor Umbridge," he tried, phrasing his argument carefully in his head. "You must understand, we call it the Duelling Club, but on some level, it is only a remedial study group for Defence Against the Dark Arts. We have had five different professors in this area over the past five years; Duelling Club provides us a place where we can practice spells that we need to pass our OWLs. And Defense is critically important, too, for many witches."

Professor Umbridge smiled at him, offering him a bowl of sweets, which Draco politely declined. Her voice was a girlish, condescending simper. "I understand, Mr. Malfoy, but _you_ must understand that, over the past few years, you have committed a crime called _unlawful drilling_. It is defined as organizing a paramilitary group and engaging in unapproved, military-style training."

Draco's jaw didn't drop, but only because he was too well-bred for it. It _wanted_ to drop. Did she just _threaten_ him?

Professor Umbridge laughed, a high-pitched twitter. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, don't look so concerned! I am willing to overlook the past transgression, so long as you keep to the straight and narrow from now on. I understand the reasoning behind your club, and I agree that it serves a useful purpose, so I will allow you to continue, but I will want some restrictions, young man. I expect you to institute an application process for your club, and I will consider who will be permitted to join. Does that sound fair?"

She had phrased it as a question, but Draco knew perfectly well that it was an ultimatum. He tried protesting anyway.

"But Professor Umbridge, I worry that defeats the purpose of the club," he replied, aiming for a tone of respectful deference. "I would like to help all students who feel like they need help, and everyone should have these skills."

"It's the application process, or it's nothing, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Umbridge replied, with a patronizing sort of smile. "But I will let you formulate the application process."

Draco didn't have any choice but to accept it, so he tried to keep his form as simple as possible: name, House, year. He didn't want to give Professor Umbridge any reason to turn anyone away. If he added Defense grades or Duelling grades, he was worried she would cut off some students who _were_ doing well, and if he added in any sort of free _why do you want to join Duelling Club _question, he was worried she would cut off students who didn't give the "right" answer.

But it seemed like all his efforts came to nothing. Pansy was permitted to join his club, but all the Weasleys and Longbottom had been rejected. Rookwood and Rosier – well, Blake, Draco supposed – had graduated, but about three-quarters of his beginners over the past few years had been disallowed. What he was left with was himself, Pansy, a few Slytherins in the lower years, a handful of Ravenclaws, and a couple Hufflepuffs. It was nothing like it was before, and Draco didn't enjoy it anywhere near as much. And Rigel – Harry – wasn't there, either.

He could feel the tension in the school increasing as Halloween approached. In his past four years at Hogwarts, Halloween had never passed without something happening, as steady and reliable as receiving a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor each year. He woke up, feeling as though there was a hourglass hanging over his head, and treaded his way almost nervously to the Great Hall.

He didn't have to wait long.

Something was wrong, from the moment he walked in. There was a feeling of harsh fury and pleasure reeking off the House tables – sharpest on the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff Houses, but it echoed off the Ravenclaw and Slytherin House tables too. Professor Umbridge's face, on the Head Table, was a dark thundercloud. If he focused on her, Draco could feel a calculating sort of rage, a cold hate, as she stared down at the students in front of her.

He grimaced, pushing the emotions away, and sat down in his usual spot at the Slytherin table beside Pansy. Pansy was giving off waves of catlike curiosity, while Blaise, across the table where he could keep an eye on Abbott, was worried. Millicent was nowhere to be seen.

"What's going on?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Pansy blinked at him, giving a small, unusually bright, smile. "Nothing, Drake, nothing at all. Why do you ask? Happy Halloween."

Draco shot her an eminently disbelieving look, but she just glanced down at his empty plate. Eat. They would talk later. It couldn't be clearer if she had shouted it.

He set down to it, but it was difficult – almost as difficult as it had been when his gift had first awakened, when everything had been new, when everyone's emotions had cut like daggers. On the surface, it was the same – students still laughed, wished each other a happy Halloween, chatted about classes and crushes and candy. But underneath, the currents ran – hot, burning anger, roiling hate, vindictive, cruel, pleasure.

Millicent joined them at lunch, but said nothing, her face a cheerful smile as she wished them all a happy Halloween, even as she gave off a feeling of hard satisfaction. Draco threw her an inquiring look, but she ignored him. Blaise, too, was _frustrated_ – Draco had seen Hannah leaving from the Hufflepuff table, laughing and waving Blaise off as he tried to go with her, then disappearing out the wide doors to the Great Hall.

It wasn't until after classes that they holed up in Draco's dorm, Millicent's doe-like brown eyes pausing on Draco for a moment before she pulled out a newspaper, grey-tinged, the title bold, black ink that Draco just knew would come off in his hands.

He scowled at it. "_Again_ with _Bridge_, Millie?"

She ignored him, holding up the front page to show the headline. _RAMPANT RIGHTS VIOLATIONS AT HOGWARTS._

"It's an exposé on Hogwarts – specifically, on Umbridge," Millicent said, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. "A complete list of all the edicts, followed by a written description of the _enforcement_, with statistics on who is getting stopped and questioned, who is getting searched, and on what basis. There's a legal analysis at the end about the ways that it infringes on our fundamental human rights, especially for the search and seizure edicts. It was printed the day before yesterday, but most of us only got our copies last night or this morning. It's mad – Howlers are probably going to start appearing tomorrow."

Draco stared at the offending paper. It wasn't that he had _agreed_ with the edicts (he hadn't, not in the least), but he had never really thought of them as a _violation_, something _wrong_. He knew that the Gryffindors were getting hit hard, then the Hufflepuffs, but he had just accepted it at face value. If they had nothing to hide, what did it matter if they were searched? What did it matter that they were questioned? And anyway, the only people he knew for certain were getting hit hard were the Weasleys, but with all their pranks and with their reputation…

"Who wrote this?" He found himself asking, reaching almost hesitantly for the paper, then dropping his hand away. He didn't want to read it. He didn't want to know what lies (or were they lies?) they were telling. His father had told him to keep his head down, to let Professor Umbridge do her work. He wanted to know what the _Daily Prophet_ was saying.

But the _Daily Prophet_ had spent all summer lying too. About Harry.

"Two new contributors – kelpie and dachshund," Millicent said in reply, shrugging diffidently. "But they're definitely Hogwarts students. The level of detail they provide – someone kept track of who was questioned and where was searched, in detail. That was how they came up with the statistics – forty-six percent of the people questioned were Gryffindors, followed by twenty-nine percent Hufflepuffs. Ravenclaws make up the next seventeen percent, and only eight percent Slytherins. _No_ Slytherin had more than one questioning. It's more damning when you cross-reference with nobility – most nobles skipped out with no questioning, and only Longbottom was questioned twice. Even if twenty percent of the school is noble, less than four percent of the questioning and searches hit nobles. It's a shoddy investigation – there's an argument that it's just a show."

"But that's – that's _preposterous_," Draco replied, shaking his head, feeling Pansy's cool consideration, Millicent's deep satisfaction, Blaise's gentle interest. "Of course, the investigation is legitimate, even if I think that Umbridge is on the wrong track. I don't know who – I'm not listening to this, Millie. Not even if they can't even put their _names _to it, you can't take seriously people who won't even put their names behind what they're willing to put in print. I'm not listening to this."

The tall, stocky girl studied at him for a moment, then her eyes narrowed. "The facts are still the _facts, _Draco, name or no name. I guess, then, that I'll see you later." Her voice was cool, and she folded up her paper, standing up in one smooth, even motion. She headed for the door, checking both ways before she left.

He didn't, actually, see her later. Millicent sat with her friends in Hufflepuff for the Halloween feast, laughing beside a girl that Draco vaguely recognized as Megan Jones in their year, and the minute that Abbott looked over at their table, smiling brightly at Blaise, he was gone. It was just him and Pansy, Pansy and him, and the empty spots beside them that should have held their friends.

The next morning was worse – he woke up, he went to breakfast, and Millicent was gone. Pansy's face was pale, her lower lip trembling.

"Professor Snape came and fetched her around three in the morning," she said, keeping her voice quiet. "Her uncle's house – there was a fire. It's been burned to the ground."

"That's _awful_, Pans," Draco replied, feeling her genuine shock over it, with an overlying tint of something else – worry, because that was ever-present with her now, but also something almost like a question. "What _happened? _How did it breach the wards, and what about the containment spells?"

Pansy only shook her head. "I don't know. No one knows, yet. But her aunt, her cousins …"

Draco sucked in a breath. "No."

"They didn't make it out."

The _Daily Prophet _called it an accident – a Potions accident, most likely. A potion had been left to simmer overnight and unexpectedly exploded, catching the rest of the house on fire. It had acted as an accelerant, and the usual containment spells preventing fire from spreading had failed. Perhaps it had been too long since those spells were renewed, or perhaps something in the potion interfered with the proper functioning of the spells. They weren't entirely sure, but it was awful, a terrible, unforeseen tragedy. Pansy took charge of organizing a gift of flowers and condolences for Millicent, who was away the next week with her family, for the funerals.

But the next week, _Bridge_ published an investigative piece, co-written by otter, chimaera, and kelpie. They said it wasn't an accident. It wasn't just a tragedy – it was _arson_. Someone had disengaged the usual spells, both the spells to inhibit fire _and_ the alarm spells that should have alerted Madam Bulstrode to the problem. Someone had spread an accelerant over the house; someone had _set _the fire and watched the house burn to the ground, killing everyone inside.

Someone had thrown an eerie, green, skull-and-serpent symbol into the sky, over the steaming ruins of the Bulstrode manor, over the bodies of Millicent's aunt and her cousins.

_Bridge _didn't stop there. Instead, they drew comparisons over four separate incidents: the strike on the Quidditch World Cup, the kidnappings in the final Triwizard game, the attack on the Hogwarts Express, and the Bulstrode Mansion fire. Three of the four incidents had the same symbol, the same green skull-and-serpent, flying high. The pamphlets thrown over the Quidditch World Cup and on the Hogwarts Express had some of the same turns of phrase, the same overall _message_. The people seen at the Hogwarts train attack wore the same masks as the people who had kidnapped Harry at the final Triwizard game. And the Bulstrodes – one of the themes hit hardest by the tract thrown on the train was Wizarding Britain's debasement before the ICW, and it was none other than Sir Philip Bulstrode, Wizarding Britain's Ambassador to the ICW, Millicent's uncle, who was responsible for it. And, with the recent trade embargoes, the recent condemnation statements, the timing made _sense_.

Despite his inclinations, Draco read the article. He went out of his way to do it, borrowing a copy from Blaise, which he had gotten from Abbott. And it was a good piece.

It was a good, convincing, piece, and Draco _hated_ that it almost seemed to make more sense than the _Daily Prophet's _lines. But it _didn't_ make more sense – there _were_ differences, between all the attacks. The Quidditch World Cup had been so long ago, almost a full year before the Triwizard Tournament final, and the two events were so completely unlike each other in character. The train attack, obviously it was made to _look like_ the first attack, but the differences in the tone and style in of the two pamphlets was palpable, and the time in between the incidents was so long, it was more likely to be a copycat incident. And there was no real evidence that the fire at the Bulstrode mansion had been anything except a horrible, horrifying accident. Nothing but a flaming symbol, one that anyone could draw in illusion magic, dangling over the ruins of the mansion, a huge, macabre joke of a sign. Draco, if he looked it up, could probably mimic that illusion spell too.

It _didn't_ make more sense.

And that was exactly why Professor Umbridge passed _Edict No. 46: Any student found in possession of the newspaper Bridge will be expelled._

XXX

_AN: FYI if you are reading this within the first 3 hours of me posting, it is still my birthday! Hooray! Thank you everyone last time for the reviews, which have similarly been passed to meek_bookworm, who also celebrated a birthday this week! Moving on, after this chapter, every time Chess says "I can take care of myself" etc, I say "You let yourself get set on fire." And those of you who read the memorandum of law in Flashes now know what Penelope is hiding. Thanks as per usual to meek_bookworm and various subject matter experts! Please leave me a comment or review letting me know your thoughts! _

_Next chapter: Go on alone, 'cause I won't follow / This isn't giving up, no this is letting go / Out with the old dreams I've borrowed / The path I carve from here on out will be my own (This is Letting Go, by Rise Against)_


	10. Chapter 10

Aldon stared at the great horned owl: grey, ruffled, with great yellow eyes and large tufts of feathers over ears. It was huge, looking odd balanced precariously as it was on the thin, delicate railing of Christie's balcony, its talons making dents in her decorative trellis pattern. Aldon wondered, offhand, if he should repair the balcony railing for her – he probably should. She wouldn't say anything if he didn't, but a _Reparo_ was so easy to cast, and he did want to be a good houseguest.

She would tell him that he wasn't a houseguest, that this was his _home_, as long as he needed it to be, but Aldon had never felt comfortable in her space. They didn't work the same hours, exactly – since Aldon had to work with Francesca, five hours behind him in America, he tended to go in around noon and stay until dinner, to compensate for his late-night meetings. They didn't eat dinner together, usually, though Christie always made sure something was still left in the refrigerator for Aldon when he came back. She could often be found reading a novel or watching television in the living room, and on occasion he would join her, eating in awkward silence while listening to the mystery shows that she apparently loved. Sometimes, they talked – odd, stilted conversations where Aldon never really knew what to say.

His day had been fine. Yes, he was enjoying his work. He loved working on the ACD. The penthouse was comfortable, and no, he didn't mind that it was much smaller than Rosier Place. Even at Rosier Place, it wasn't as if he had _used_ their dozens of rooms, and his bedroom was fine. No, he didn't need to redecorate, it was perfectly fine. He didn't mind that Christie couldn't cook, he couldn't cook either, and no, he didn't feel the lack of a home-cooked meal. Ordering takeaway was fine, when his former nurse-elf, Ummi, couldn't come by with a meal. He hadn't tried most of the food she had ordered before, but he was making an effort to be open-minded. He didn't know what to think of Indian food, which would always come with connotations of being possessed for him, but he liked a lot of Chinese food. He hated sushi – he hated the feeling of raw fish in his mouth, and he would happily spend the rest of his life avoiding it.

The owl sitting on the railing stared at him balefully, blinking, shoving its leg forward at him insistently. Aldon sighed. He was just avoiding the inevitable, because he _knew_ that owl. It was Ed's owl, and the letter attached to it, sealed with the Selwyn crest, was from his oldest and closest friend. And Aldon didn't want to know what it said. He didn't want to know. He would be content _never_ knowing, because if it was rejection, he would rather keep the memories he had, the good ones, pure and unspoilt.

But the owl was here, and it was Ed's owl, and it had carried him a letter, and it wouldn't go until Aldon took it. And, knowing Ed, Ed had probably instructed it to peck him until he read it, or some such. Ed knew him too well.

Aldon reached out with hesitant fingers, untying the scarlet ribbon that held the tiny scroll of parchment. It was short, but Ed's missives had never been long. Between the two of them, Aldon had generally been the talkative one, the one who had written scrolls of letters – Ed's replies had always been simple, to the point, sharing little about himself. Ed was his best friend, and Ed let him hang around him for five years before starting at Hogwarts, let him hover around him their entire years at Hogwarts, but on some level, Aldon had always worried. Ed was _his_ best friend, but there was so little showing him that he was _Ed's_ best friend. Only the fact that Ed had made him best man at his wedding, really, and some days, Aldon would even wonder about that. Aldon was noble, and Ed had not been noble, and maybe Aldon was just a convenient noble friend that Ed didn't mind having around.

Friendships were easier as Aldon Blake. Aldon didn't worry that people looked at him and only saw the _Rosier Heir_, a source of power and connections, not the person lying beneath it. He knew that Queenscove genuinely liked him, even if they still called each other by their last names only and pretended like they didn't like each other at all. He knew that his co-workers genuinely liked him, a _very_ belated eighteenth birthday cake appearing on his desk not too long ago at work, with no warning whatsoever. He even guessed that Francesca liked him, as a friend, because she wouldn't tell him things about herself the way she did unless she trusted him. She had a thirty percent sole interest in the ACD project, while Aldon shared his seventy percent with the entirety of Blake & Associates, so there was no reason for her to talk to him about anything _except_ the ACD unless she saw him as a friend.

He looked at the owl, which was impatiently ruffling its feathers, an unspoken command for him to _open the letter and read it, already. _

"What would you do if I just walked inside, right now?" Aldon asked it, staring down at the giant bird. A Great Horned Owl was big, and as light as its bones were, Aldon wasn't sure if he would win a tussle with it. It had a sharp beak and sharper talons. And he liked this waistcoat. It was a dark burgundy, with a smooth satin feeling, and he would hate to have it savaged.

It hooted at him and flapped its wings. It would come after him, Aldon thought that meant. It had its instructions, and Ed had always been good with creatures.

Hell. "Fine," Aldon muttered, then he cracked open the seal. The red Selwyn seal – perhaps, a not-so-subtle reminder from his oldest friend that the tides had turned, and now Ed was the one who was noble, and Aldon was not?

The letter was short, even by Ed's standards.

_Aldon,_

_Leaky Cauldron. Noon. Tuesday._

_Edmund Rookwood._

_Osti de criss_, Aldon found himself thinking. Queenscove had taught him the basics of Quebecois profanity, in a lengthy lecture that Aldon was convinced he been given largely to avoid the lesson of the day, which had been on formal dinner etiquette. Not that Queenscove had been invited to any formal dinner parties yet, nor had he hosted a formal dinner party, but it was something he needed to know. Aldon had listened for half an hour, because it _was_ rather interesting, before forcing Queenscove to focus and study the set dinner table in front of him. Then, to make up for the half hour's diversion on the intricacies of swearing, he had quizzed Queenscove at _length_ about seating charts, much to Lady Queenscove's amusement.

He ran through his schedule in his mind – Tuesday at noon, that was fine, they didn't have a group meeting scheduled with Francesca that day. Group meetings were normally at noon, or seven in the morning her time, though he would probably be talking to Francesca on Monday night until at least midnight, if not a little later. He usually slept around one, these days, waking up around nine. He supposed he could wake up a little earlier, head into work at maybe nine-thirty or ten before going to meet Ed. It was doable.

He looked up, ready to tell the owl that it could go, but it had already disappeared. No return message needed or expected, apparently. Aldon frowned a little – well, Ed wouldn't know that Aldon didn't have his own owl, but Aldon could have been busy, and he didn't like treading into Diagon Alley, these days. It was risky, wizarding areas, with the Marriage Law, Christie had taken to ensuring that only Muggleborns were sent to pick up the post from their Diagon Alley office.

But the Leaky Cauldron was on the edge of the two worlds, and Aldon couldn't think of anywhere better, not that Ed would be able to get to easily. He thought there was a coffee shop close to the Leaky Cauldron, but Ed would probably stand out too much, if he was even willing to step into the Muggle world to get there. He shook his head – what a difference even a few months had made. Aldon would never be quite as natural, or as comfortable, as Archie, or John, or Queenscove in the Muggle world, but he was fine. He knew how to dress appropriately, he understood how to get around, how to order food and generally blend in. But Ed likely didn't, so the Leaky Cauldron it would have to be. Aldon supposed that he could always _Silencio_ anyone who attempted to get a formal proposal of marriage to him, or _Incendio_ the papers before they could be handed to him, before making a run for it. Thank god he was a legal adult and any formal proposals of marriage would need to be made directly to him.

He would have to do something about the Marriage Law, sooner rather than later – avoiding the public wizarding areas was becoming a nuisance. Overthrowing the law was his eventual plan, of course, but until then he would need some other method of preventing proposals. There had to be some way to make himself such an inappropriate marriage partner that no one would dare propose to him. A reputation for ruthlessness or cruelty, maybe? No one would want to engage their children to someone with a reputation for cruelty. Or maybe he should break several more etiquette rules somehow, somewhere. He'd have think on it later.

He mentioned the meeting to Francesca, Monday night, after they had finished working on the ACD. Francesca had set his ACD to flash the proto-runic sequence for his three-spell ward with half a second per rune, but they were trying to pare down the time. She had managed to talk Aldon through cracking open his own device – Aldon was _extremely _careful about his ACD and refused to do anything unless he understood her instructions _exactly_.

"Which screw am I looking at?" he asked, staring at the back of his ACD. There were eight tiny silver screws, from what he could see, and he had a tiny screwdriver in his right hand, which he felt _very_ discomfited by. "Which one do I unscrew first?"

"It doesn't matter, just pick one."

"But what if I break it?"

"Then I'll fix it for you." Francesca's voice held a bit of a laugh. "Aldon, just crack it open! You need to get at the variable resistor to adjust the timing of the proto-runes."

"I wish you were _here_," he grumbled back at the communication orb, before he realized what he was saying and flushed, embarrassed. He hadn't meant it that way – or did he? He wanted her in Britain, certainly, and he even wanted her beside him, right now, helping him open his ACD to adjust the timing of the proto-rune sequence, but he didn't mean it… or, well, he did, but he hadn't meant it like that when he _said_ it. He imagined, for the briefest of seconds, Francesca sitting here beside him, laughing at him while he struggled with his ACD. Her face would be bright, shining, in her amusement, and that _smile_…

"Well, I'm still in school," Francesca replied, with a bit of a sigh, and Aldon pushed the thought away, deciding to let his comment go rather than trying to take it back. She wasn't offended. Instead, he picked one of the tiny silver screws and started working on it – _without_ magic. "You'll just have to manage. Do you have it open yet?"

It took him the rest of the hour to open the ACD, pull out the microcontroller, connect it to his new _laptop_ and adjust the timing of the program that Francesca had sent to him yesterday from town. Aldon had an _email account _now, which was simultaneously frightening and fascinating at the same time.

Well, technically, he had two email accounts, one through Blake & Associates and the other for _Bridge_, but no one need know about the second one. He wasn't a writer for the paper, only one of the final reviewers, and it was his job, as _hawk_, to help ensure that they didn't cross so many lines as to be an easy target for sedition charges by the Ministry, were they ever caught, not that he thought that was likely. There were dozens of protections built into the paper: pseudonyms, secrecy of the individual writers and the paper's locations even from each other, the use of Muggle _email_ entirely under their pseudonyms to ensure anonymity. Only when the paper was printed did the article become tangible, otherwise everything was done and saved electronically. Between code names, the intense secrecy, and the use of Muggle technology, he hoped it would be enough to keep any Ministry investigation stymied for a good, long while.

And Aldon had to admit that he _liked _email. Instantaneous communication was remarkably convenient. Francesca had just sent him this program for the ACD _yesterday_, and it had appeared in his email _not even two minutes later. _He could hardly help but be impressed.

Francesca's code was beautiful and elegant, not that Aldon had any experience with these things. But it had to be, because she was beautiful and elegant, and he couldn't imagine that anything she created would be any different. She had documented her code throughout to tell him what every line meant and did, for which Aldon was endlessly thankful as he scanned through the jumble of words, numbers, symbols, looking for the variable that would control the timing of the proto-rune flashes. They were looking for the point where the spell failed, where the proto-runes weren't visible enough for long enough for Aldon's magic to react. Half a second worked perfectly fine, and with the ward-spell that Aldon had chosen, that meant it was about a minute to respond; if they pared it down by a tenth of a second each, that would cut the timing down to about forty-eight seconds. At the end, after having changed one variable in the code, _0.4 _instead of a _0.5_, and putting the ACD back together, he sighed deeply in relief when he flicked the ACD on and it came to life, the lights shining through in a blur of symbols.

"It's still working. It's fine," he reported to Francesca, on the other end of the communication orb. He glanced at the clock, prominent on the wall in the area of Christie's penthouse he referred to as the _dining area_, since it wasn't really a room, it was just a space with a dining table. It was just past midnight, and he was surprised that no one had come to fetch Francesca yet.

She laughed, a soft, bubbly sort of noise. "Of course, it's still working. You weren't doing anything that would break it. I have a few minutes before dinner, since the Duelling Club is finishing later today; how are you, Aldon?"

Aldon paused, as he always did. He shouldn't.

But she was used to that. If there was nothing, if there was really, truly, nothing, then he always just said so. He had nothing to think about, then. "What is it, Aldon?"

Aldon sighed, making a small noise of disagreement, then clearing his throat. He was an absolute disgrace. "Ed reached out to me."

"That's good, isn't it?" A pause. He had told her about Ed before – more than he had really said about Ed to anyone. She knew that he was Aldon's oldest friend, his best friend, and that he had been on his honeymoon abroad for months. She knew that Aldon had been the best man at his wedding. She knew that Aldon hadn't told Ed anything about what he was planning on doing, when he reached out to Archie. She knew that Ed had been away, the entire time when Aldon's life had turned upside down, when Aldon had been disowned by his family. She knew that Aldon worried about his friend's reaction when he returned. "Reaching out means that he still wants to have a… connection with you, right?"

Aldon thought about it, a few minutes, before replying. Francesca would be there, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. He liked that, about her – he liked the comfort of her silence. It wasn't like with Ed, where he had often felt the need to fill the air with _something_, with meaningless conversation. He didn't need to chatter at Francesca.

He packed up his ACD in the meantime, closing the lid of his laptop and putting away his other tools in a case for them, putting them in a neat pile for him to take to work tomorrow. Only when that was done did he reply.

"His letter was short," he said slowly, finally, picking up his communication orb to take to his room. "It said, and I quote: Aldon. Leaky Cauldron. Noon. Tuesday. Then his owl took off, so I couldn't even respond."

Aldon swore that he could hear her frown, as he padded through the common area of Christie's penthouse, turning off the lights as he went – mostly American-style light crystals, for these ones. Francesca's voice, when she spoke, was soft, a little concerned. "That seems a little… rude?"

"Ed was never much with words," Aldon admitted, turning into his bedroom and dropping onto his bed. "But – it was short, even for him. I think he's angry."

Francesca didn't reply, but Aldon didn't worry about that. His orb wasn't quite silent, because if he listened very carefully, he could hear her breathing, the sound of her just being there with him, accepting whatever he wanted to tell her. She would listen until he was finished, without interrupting, just being present. He liked that. He liked her, possibly more that he had ever liked anyone, and he was a complete and utter disgrace. He had nothing to offer her, he reminded himself, as he often did. She deserved better. But he found himself talking anyway.

"I don't want to meet him, but I do, at the same time. I don't – I've never been good with Ed, when he's been angry with me. There was a reason why I – why I made sure he was out of the country before I started ruining my life," Aldon continued, lying back on his bed and setting the communication orb beside him. There was a little depression in his pillow where he usually left the orb, because Aldon was a humiliating embarrassment to himself. "But I – I have to see him. Because it would be rude if I didn't, and I just – I can't say no. Not to Ed. I—"

He fell silent for another minute, his voice going even quieter. He had never admitted this to anyone, not even himself, not so bluntly. It had always _been_ there, but he had never really said so, not out loud. He didn't know why he was telling this to _her_, of all people. Or maybe he did, and it was because she listened, because whatever he would say, she would simply accept it without any hint of judgement. "I – I think I loved him. As more than a friend, I mean."

There was silence from the orb, then a small sigh. "You know, I – John." She paused, and Aldon thought she was looking for words, but she didn't really need to say it. Aldon could already guess. "There's no one like John in the world, so – so one reason I never really dated anyone is that there's no one like him. I – I don't – he's gay, so it's not like it would have gone anywhere even if it had been anything, and I like Gerry, too. Gerry is good for him, it's just—" She fell silent, and Aldon wondered if she might be blushing.

"Ed married our friend Alice in June." Aldon sighed, a long and heavy breath. "They had been together for years before that. But even before _that_, it isn't that I ever expected anything – it's unfashionable in Wizarding Britain, but since we were old enough to know such things, Ed has always been very openly and exclusively heterosexual, so I knew my feelings would never come to anything. But I can't say no to him, Francesca."

Francesca laughed a little, a sad sort of sound. "And all the men I like are gay, so I understand. I really – I really have to stop doing that, falling for gay ones, I mean." Aldon heard a shout from her end of the communication orb, a male voice – this one he didn't recognize very well, but it wasn't John and it wasn't Faleron, either, who had a distinctive accent. She blew out a breath, one that Aldon imagined he could feel on his cheek. "I – I have to go. You know how they get, when I argue with them. Tell me how it goes, Aldon. Have a good night."

Aldon wished her a good night in reply, before falling back in his bed, leaving the orb in the small dip in his pillow beside him, where he could hear her voice almost whispering in his ear sometimes, when he was _especially_ shameful. Which seemed to be always, now, because it seemed that he had no ability to resist his own impulses, not when it came to Francesca. And now it half past midnight, and he should be up no later than eight, to get in to work for nine, and then he'd have to run out no later than eleven-thirty to face Ed. He needed to change into his sleeping clothes, then sleep what few hours he could, first.

He couldn't sleep. Or, rather, he felt like he hadn't slept all night, even though he had to have slept at least a few hours. He remembered, that night, was lying awake, the ever-present light pollution of London bleeding into his room until he got too annoyed and threw a blackout spell at his curtains. Then he remembered lying awake, comfortable and warm in his bed, but somehow still unable to fall asleep. His mind was too busy, even in the darkness, even in the comfort and warmth. He remembered rolling over, changing positions, none of them truly better than the last. By the time his wand buzzed, at eight in the morning, it felt like an inevitability. He was already awake, and the buzzing of his wand was only telling him that he needed to rise. Rise, go to his wardrobe, and pick out his clothes for the day.

Black, today, he thought grimly. But not entirely black – he would go with his brilliant, royal blue waistcoat, which contrasted quite nicely with his black shirt and trousers. He fixed his hair quickly (a good thing about his new hairstyle was that it didn't take anywhere near as long to arrange), heading out of his bedroom.

"You're up early," Christie said, with a tentative smile, looking up from her book, her plate of toast, her mug. "You, er, you should have said something. I would have made more coffee."

"It's fine, Christie, please," Aldon replied, with a small, somewhat awkward smile of his own. "I can – I know how to work the coffee machine, now. I just have a meeting at lunch today, with a friend, so I have to leave around eleven-thirty so – I'll be back in the office by two, I imagine."

Christie nodded, a small frown marring her face. "You don't have to justify yourself to me, Aldon – you work hard, and I know you were up late again on the ACD project. You could have taken the morning off, just come in after your lunch meeting."

"But there are the other projects to look at too." Aldon looked away, sliding two slices of home-baked bread, made by his nurse-elf, into the Muggle toaster. Ummi had always made the best bread. "I can't let the other projects slide, even if the ACD is my favourite one. I want to have the analysis on the proposed runic amendments on Ryu's new broomstick project to him today."

"All right." Christie bit her lip, thinking. Aldon did that too – Alice used to make fun of him for it, all through studying for his OWLs. "Don't overwork yourself, sweetheart."

It was actually a little past eleven-thirty that Aldon ran out of the office – he had gotten caught up in broomwork diagrams, which were always a headache. The Firebolt Broom Company, one of Blake & Associates' most lucrative clients, wanted to increase their broom acceleration speeds, which Aldon privately thought was a little needless. There was only so much jerk a human body could take – at some point they would need to bring a Healer in to figure out the safest speed they could accelerate a human body from stationary, beyond which _more_ improvement was pointless.

Speaking of which, hadn't Hermione or Archie mentioned someone? A British Muggleborn a few years ahead of them, now working in Boston – the top Spell Damage student at AIM a few years ago, who had wanted to come home to Britain but been unable to find a job at St. Mungo's? He'd have to think about it – perhaps whoever it was would be interested in a consulting job.

He ran for the Underground – he would have to hurry, and he fished around in his pocket for one of the finicky little tokens as he ran. He would have to get more of those soon, he was always running out of them. From where he was, Bank Station, he could transfer at Tottenham Court Road for Leicester Square Station, the closest station to the Leaky Cauldron, but balancing the time of the transfer as compared to just bolting the slightly longer distance from Tottenham Court Road directly to the Leaky Cauldron, it would probably be faster if he just got off at Tottenham Court. Even if it _was_ raining. It always rained, in London.

He was only a few minutes late, running one hand through his hair to shake out the excess water – at least his coat, even if it looked like wool, had some sort of protective coating on top that slicked away water. It wasn't magic, but sometimes it felt like it. What was it that Archie would quote sometimes, here and there? _Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic._ Whoever said it, he was more right than he knew.

Ed was already there, sitting in a booth, and Aldon spotted him immediately. There would always be some part of Aldon that had a _sensor_ for Ed – his shape, his form, his face was burned into Aldon's memories. He wasn't alone – Alice was there, too. Alice was always there, wasn't she? She was always there, and Aldon was left on the outside. He shouldn't have been surprised, and yet he was. He had thought that this would be a _private_ discussion, between him and his oldest friend.

He studied Ed for a moment – his friend was well dressed, in green robes, fitted well to highlight his broad shoulders, which Aldon had always loved. Alice, too, was as beautiful as ever, her eyeliner thick around stunning blue eyes, her robes a dark red, trimmed in gold. They looked handsome, magical – the perfect picture of a wizarding noble couple.

Aldon didn't look like that anymore. He didn't wear _robes_, anymore – after Justice was through with him, and after months of wearing Muggle clothing, putting on robes only reminded him of being possessed, of draining people of their magic, of ripping out souls and tearing lives apart. Justice always thought they deserved it, but Aldon, being very much a criminal by the standards of the society in which he lived, was less sure. He preferred to avoid remembering, if he could, and when did he have time to wear robes anyway, living as he did primarily in the Muggle world? And Francesca didn't like robes. They swallowed anyone built on a smaller frame, she said, herself and Aldon included. Clothes should _fit_ – clothes should highlight people's best features, not just be a statement in and of themselves.

Aldon took a deep breath, reminded himself that he looked good, and slid into the booth across from them. They stared at him – the visual change was, just as he had planned so many months ago, enormous. His hair was damp, from the rain, a lot shorter than it used to be, and he was in Muggle dress. He took off his coat, sending it floating with a quickly drawn wind rune to the closest free hook, and tugged his waistcoat down to sit properly on his body.

"Edmund. Alice. How was your honeymoon?" he asked, his voice an effort at levity as he caught the eye of their waitress, a slight, blonde, waif-like teenager. Not long out of Hogwarts, if she had even gone to Hogwarts. He didn't think she had – he would have recognized her, otherwise. "The shepherd's pie, please. Oh, I forgot, do you take pounds? I'm sorry, I forgot to bring any Galleons this morning, and I only have pounds. I haven't had the chance to change monies in some time, anyway."

"Pounds will be fine, Mr. Blake," the girl said, the light of recognition in her blue eyes as she came to their table. "If you would like, we can exchange some funds for you? I can send one of the boys to Gringotts."

"No, no," Aldon replied, smiling gratefully at her. "I don't get into wizarding areas much anymore. But if you could warn me about any, er, potential, er…"

"I'll see to it that you're not disturbed." The girl nodded briskly. "The shepherd's pie for you, then. Sir, madam?"

There was a short pause. "The shepherd's pie will be fine," Ed said finally, his gravelly voice low. "Thank you."

The waitress nodded and walked away, heading to the kitchen to call out their orders. Aldon sighed, turning back to his friends. His _once_ friends, maybe? Or would they still be his friends now?

"You're late," Alice said, her voice blunt.

"My apologies." Aldon inclined his head slightly, painstakingly polite. "I was a little tardy coming from the office, and the Underground was not cooperative."

"Why didn't you just _Apparate?"_ Alice frowned in reply. "Whatever your blood, you _are_ a wizard."

Aldon raised an eyebrow, both at her tone and at her mention of his blood-status. Was it really necessary to remind him of it? He set it aside, for the moment, keeping both his face and his tone impassive. "Have _you_ tried to find a clear space to Apparate from the City? It's impossible at this hour. A million Muggles work in the City, it would be breaking the Statute of Secrecy to even try, and of course our offices are well warded against Apparition. The Underground serves well enough."

Ed and Alice exchanged glances, one that Aldon didn't need to think to comprehend. Aldon was not the person they remembered – Aldon was no longer a Rosier, and he was no longer noble. He was no longer a pureblood, or rather he had never been, but no one save Ed had known. That was as much as they could have known, coming into the meeting.

And here Aldon sat, across from them, his hair short and damp, wearing Muggle clothes. Here Aldon was, asking questions about whether he could pay for his lunch in Muggle money instead of Galleons, talking about taking the London Underground. The changes weren't just surface deep, and his friends didn't know how to deal with it.

Aldon didn't know how to deal with it either – how to deal with them, now that they sat together on the other side of the table, a yawning expanse that somehow felt much larger than two or three feet of wood. The waitress returned with water, setting three glasses down on the table.

"Nothing stronger, Aldon?" Ed asked, expressionless, but with a hint of concern in his eyes. The silence was awkward.

"Didn't you threaten to put me in St. Mungo's yourself if you caught me with a drink?" Aldon replied, a little teasing, reaching for his glass of water.

"I did, but with the past few months…" Ed's eyes dropped down to Aldon's clothes, again. At one time, Aldon would have delighted in that look, even if it didn't mean anything. But now, that look only made him cringe, a little – it was a look of concern, and Aldon didn't know how to take that.

Aldon had changed over the past few months. He had started changing before that, not that Ed had known, because Aldon had actively hidden his thoughts from his best friend. And even if Aldon's choices over the past few months had led to the loss of his status, his prestige, and his place in society, he had also _gained_ something. He hadn't lied, months ago, when Queenscove had asked – before, he had always been afraid of what would happen if anyone found out, he had lived in a state of paralyzing fear and dread. Now that it had come out, though, he felt as though he had been set free. The worst had already happened, so what need did he have of fear?

And there were good things, in his new world. Even if he didn't know how to talk to Christie, not really, he had no doubt that, for whatever reason, she loved him and cared about him in a way that his own parents had never loved or cared for him. She tried, and even if it didn't feel natural to him, he tried too. He didn't understand television very well, nor the _television shows_ that she loved, but he liked watching the news. He liked trying to figure out how his new world worked. There was his laptop, his email, and the Internet, which let him communicate with both _Bridge _correspondents and Francesca in a handful of minutes instead of waiting hours or days for Owl Post. There was the ACD, which had the potential to completely revolutionize spellcasting.

There was Archie, whom Aldon knew had greatly smoothed his transition into living in the Muggle world, all under the guise of getting him ready for a birthday party. There was John, who had mailed him a stack of Occlumency textbooks from America with a note to work on his shields, and there was Queenscove, who paid him a staggering amount of money every month for what was really not an onerous task and taught him how to swear like the Quebecois. And there was Francesca, determined Francesca, passionate Muggleborn Francesca who, just like Aldon, wanted to destroy the world as they knew it.

"The past few months," Aldon said agreeably, his voice non-committal, raising his glass of water to his lips again. He wasn't sure what else to say. "They happened."

"Aldon, what have you _done_ with yourself?" Alice hissed, leaning forward towards him in their booth, keeping her voice down. "We were gone for _five months._ Only five months! And we come back, and you've destroyed your life! What's wrong with you? Even if _you_ knew you were a halfblood, why put yourself in this position? Why do this to yourself? If you'd just kept your head down, no one would have ever known, no one would have noticed. And instead, you go and stick your neck out on the line for someone who has _nothing _to do with us and look at what happened!"

Aldon took a breath and blinked, tilting his head to consider her. Her tone was harsh, but that was only her shock speaking. She had always reacted to the unknown and to surprises with harsh words, he reminded himself, words that she didn't always mean, and he tried to keep that in mind as he struggled to formulate a response.

He supposed that, from her perspective, it might look like he had done something entirely nonsensical. He glanced at Ed, whose face only showed concern, no anger or annoyance. Ed knew him better – Ed had known he was a halfblood for years, Ed had followed him into the Tournament. Ed knew he was changing, even if he hadn't known where it led.

And where it led was here, a crack in the road between them that could turn into an impasse, or not. He took a deep breath, picking his words carefully. "Alice, I am grateful that you don't consider me to be lesser because of my blood-status, but I did it because the laws themselves are wrong," he replied coolly. "I don't accept that I should be valued any less highly because of what I was born – and I don't accept that I ought to hide my blood-status in order to engage in society on the same basis as everyone else. It was a risk."

"A risk that _didn't pay off._" Alice blew out an angry breath, rolling her eyes. "Well, at least with the Marriage Law, this is easily fixed. It shouldn't be too hard to find someone with status to marry you, and then Edmund and I can work on getting you reinstated as the Rosier Heir. You won't have to hide your blood-status then."

Aldon froze, a few seconds before he reminded himself that Alice had been, until his blood status came out, a second cousin, that Ed was his oldest friend, and they had not lived these past few months with him. And that he needed to breathe. "Thank you for the thought, Alice, but no, thank you. I will be fine."

"Aldon, the new law works in your favour," Ed cut in, his words slow even if he seemed as much taken aback as anything else. "You've… you've never been romantic, Aldon, you've always been pragmatic. I know it's not ideal, but it is a simple solution. And if you're open to it, it's less likely that you'll be trapped into a marriage anyway by the no-refusals clause."

"One assumes it is a solution that I _want_," Aldon snapped, before he could stop himself. "It isn't. Believe it or not, I _have_ considered it, and there _is_ a reason I have been avoiding wizarding areas of late."

Ed and Alice exchanged another look, and Aldon took the time to wrestle himself under control. He shouldn't have said that. He should have found other ways to politely decline. He took another deep breath, flashing a quick smile at their waitress as she came back with three plates of shepherd's pie.

"My apologies. Why don't we talk about something else?" He suggested, pulling out his cutlery to dig into the mix of mashed potatoes, lamb and vegetables. Queenscove said that, in Quebec, shepherd's pie was called _pâtés chinoises,_ which Aldon thought was rather subtly racist. Somehow. "Tell me about your grand tour around the world. Did you see all the creatures you wanted to see?"

"I'd rather not," Alice replied, her brilliant blue eyes narrowed in a sharp frown. "We're not leaving this be, Aldon, not when you're acting so completely unlike yourself, when you're acting against your own best interests. Have you gone insane? If not marriage, what will you _do_?"

Aldon took a bite of his shepherd's pie, as much for something to do as anything else. The shepherd's pie was good, and he was paying for it, so he might as well eat it. And it provided a welcome distraction, something that he could look at other than his disapproving friends. "I have a job, Alice. You had one too, I recall, at least until you married. I work quite a lot. I have something like friends, and I am learning to live in the Muggle world, which has its points of interest. Life has been interesting, even if it hasn't been easy."

Alice opened her mouth, then closed it. By her expression, the way Ed looked at her, and the fact that Aldon couldn't see Ed's left hand under the table, he guessed that there had been some signal for Alice to stop, to let Ed deal with him. Aldon would have much preferred this conversation to remain a quiet one between himself and Ed alone, without Alice there.

"You cannot tell me that you are satisfied with that, Aldon," Ed replied, in his low mountain's voice. "I know you. You would never be satisfied to sit on the loss of your status."

"I never said I was," Aldon replied easily, looking his old friend in the eye. "But I find that I am… uninterested in an easy solution, one that works for me and few others. The world is a bigger place than I knew, Edmund, and I cannot help but want more – more than a marriage of convenience, more than swallowing the looks that that people will inevitably give me because I am not _pure,_ regardless of whether I will be considered a legal pureblood by reason of marriage or not. I want _more_, and I am unwilling to settle, to play by the rules that have I been given."

Another silence, another concerned stare, before Alice spoke up again, her harsh words underlaid with worry. "You sound like that paper. The new one."

That was probably true, Aldon acknowledged. As one of the final editors, he really did have a hand in how many of the articles ultimately sounded. But he also couldn't admit, not even to his oldest friends, that he had anything to do with it. Of anyone in the correspondent network, Aldon had the most likely guesses for the identities of the others.

He was _hawk, _while either Derrick or Isran was c_himaera_. _Simba _was obviously Archie, while o_tter_ was his loud, outspoken girlfriend, Hermione Granger. _Kelpie_ stood in for Cameron's network of clan kin at Hogwarts, the Ministry, and elsewhere – he didn't know names, but guessed it included well over a dozen people. And _dachshund_ had to be either Percy Weasley or Susan Bones – both had the legal background for it. If anyone had to remain under the radar, it was Aldon.

Fortunately, he had an answer. "It's a good paper, isn't it?" he replied idly, spooning some of the mashed potatoes. "I read it every week – it's easier for me to get than the _Daily Prophet_. I quite like it. The analysis, especially of current events, is excellent."

Ed shot him a disbelieving look. Aldon hadn't really expected Ed to believe that he would sit on the sidelines after throwing himself into the Triwizard Tournament, but Ed had nothing he could drag him before the Ministry for – if the Ministry even dared. One advantage of being Justice's Chosen was that Aldon thought the Ministry was _afraid_ of what might happen if they tried to charge him. He would encourage that impression, as much as he could.

Alice opened her mouth, and closed it again when Ed shot her a look.

"What now, then, Aldon, if not marriage?" His oldest friend kept his voice even, non-judgemental – if Alice wasn't there beside him, her face an open book of horror as Aldon kept talking, he might even have believed it. "What are you planning?"

Aldon shrugged, turning back to his shepherd's pie. "I plan to keep working," he said calmly, diffidently. "I plan on supporting any efforts for widespread emancipation and the complete and total repeal of all the blood discrimination laws. I plan on falling in love on my terms, marrying on my terms. I plan on _living_, Edmund. It's better to live on your feet than it is to die on your knees – or, perhaps, it is better to die on your feet than it is to live on your knees."

"You're mad," Alice said, her voice trembling. "You're utterly mad, and we should drag you into St. Mungo's right now to get your head checked out. I don't understand what's gotten into you – this is a problem with a straightforward solution, and you're _not taking it_. You'll be in a better position to advocate for the things you _do_ care about if you have your status back. We care about you, Aldon, even if you're a halfblood."

Aldon paused, a forkful of shepherd's pie halfway to his mouth. He glanced at Ed, looking to see if his oldest friend agreed with his wife. Ed wasn't looking at him, instead focused on his plate, and his expression was wooden. In his eyes, though, Aldon thought he saw confusion, concern, consternation, a million things – but none of them were understanding. None of them were quiet support for him, for Aldon, for his oldest friend.

He had seen this ending from the minute he had stepped in, hadn't he? Ed would never be swayed from Alice – Ed was a newly-minted noble, and he had actively played by the rules of the game to join the system that Aldon now wanted to destroy. Aldon had never been able to come between Ed and Alice before, so why would now be any different?

"Well," Aldon said, his voice clipped even to his own ears, feeling the impasse growing between them. He set his fork back down on his plate. "I find I am no longer hungry, and I really must get back to work, it's a half-hour's commute back to the City. My apologies for cutting this short. I'll see you later."

He threw the last sentence out there without any real hope or expectation at all – it was a polite ending, but he would not be reaching out to them, nor did he expect that they would be reaching out to him again. He summoned his coat, went to the bar and paid for the meal, for all their meals just because it would be an insult to the wizarding nobility to have a halfblood non-noble paying for them as if they couldn't afford it themselves, in Muggle money to boot, and had the rest of his plate packed in a takeaway container. The food was good, and if he took this with him, he wouldn't have to run out for dinner later that night. He waited by the counter, ignoring the looks that his oldest friends were throwing at him, accepted the paper container holding his leftovers, and disappeared back onto the streets of Muggle London.

They cared about him, even if he was a halfblood.

Aldon walked briskly back to the Underground station at Tottenham Court Road, dodging Muggles as they passed by him on the street, trying to keep under the awnings lying over shops, over stalls. The rain was cold, unpleasant, but somehow fitting, and he was warm in his Muggle coat that slicked water away, though he had no idea how or why. Maybe it was _fleece_, that material that Archie sometimes went on about, and not pure wool. It seemed to be warm enough, even without the integrated warming charm Archie thought fleece needed.

They still cared about him, even if he was a halfblood. As if caring for him despite his blood status was a gift, a personal favour to him, as if the past decade or more had meant little in light of the overwhelming fact of his blood-status, his disownment, his new social status. He had always wondered, hadn't he? How much of his friendships were real, when everything else was stripped away? And now he knew.

He polished off his analysis of the runes in Ryu's new racing broom project within a couple hours, noting that the runic sequence would probably _work _but recommending they bring in a Healer to consult, then he threw himself into the ACD for the rest of the day. He checked with Albert, on the tests the Charms researcher was developing to fix on magical frequency, then he ran through a series of experiments on the timing for his ward. It still worked – a fifth of their time shaved off, and the spell still worked. He took his ACD apart again, carefully checking and cross-checking against Francesca's drawn diagram, then he reprogrammed it to shave off another tenth of a second per rune. A thirty-six second cast ward, if it worked. All of it was enough, keeping him busy, keeping him from thinking too much about his lunchtime meeting or the people he had once called his friends, at least until he called Francesca late that night.

"It – it didn't go well," he told her, lying in bed, her ACD on his arm, one hand casually holding his communication orb on his chest. He stared up at the ceiling, examining the yellow-grey light that always flickered in from the outside. "Ed brought his wife. And they…"

She didn't speak. She just listened, waiting for Aldon to find his words. It wasn't that they were angry, not really. Well, Alice was angry, but Alice reacted to most things out of her control with anger. Ed wasn't angry, but he was worried, and he didn't understand the choices that Aldon was making. Aldon didn't even think he _could_ understand, not really – not Ed who played by the rules, Ed the social climber, Ed who had married into the nobility.

"Well, I suppose things have changed," he said finally, rolling over slightly to face the pale green orb more comfortably. Their magic did combine to make such a pretty colour – Aldon's a pale blue, and Francesca's cherry-blossom pink, and together they made a faded, delicate green, the colour of dried lemongrass. "They didn't understand. They wanted me to marry up, to take advantage of the Marriage Law. A halfblood married to a pureblood gains the rights of a legal pureblood, and in their view, that solves everything."

"Oh, Aldon." Francesca's sigh said so much more, and he laughed a little. Even after sneaking glances at her books and checking out the same titles to read in deserted corners of the library, Francesca's romantic streak continually surprised him. He didn't understand it, but he found it rather cute, so he didn't try.

"It's not so bad as that," he replied with a smile, even if he knew she couldn't see it. "I mean – arranged marriages are usual, in Wizarding Britain. I expected one too, before – well, before. Someone tolerable, I hoped. Ed and Alice were lucky enough to care for each other before they became engaged, with their families' approval, but – well, Ed wasn't noble, and Alice's family needed money. It was a good political match, and they were lucky. Most of us aren't so lucky. Love comes later, they say."

A silence, for a minute, but it was a different kind of silence. Aldon didn't know how he knew that, but this wasn't Francesca's _waiting_ silence, but her _thinking_ silence – there had to be something in her breathing, in the pattern, that changed, or maybe she changed how she sat, when she was thinking.

"I think I can kind of understand," she said slowly, her words shy and hesitant. "In my culture – I mean, I suppose my parents' culture – that's a little more common. It's not the _norm_, but my mother – well, when she wasn't married at twenty-seven, my grandparents were really freaked out, and they tried to introduce her to people. When I go back, too, it's, well, it's different. Once, I went to a wedding..."

Her voice trailed off, and Aldon curled up on the bed, tugging one of his oversized pillows farther down, almost to hug it instead of resting on it. She was still holding onto her connection, the tenuous connection that stretched across the Atlantic, because Aldon could hear her soft breathing. "And?"

Aldon was not as patient as Francesca was, when they told each other stories about themselves. Francesca waited – Francesca was happy waiting for Aldon to organize his thoughts and hand them to her, polished and perfect on a platter, while Aldon wanted her stories raw, unpolished, full of her stutters and flaws. It wasn't that she stuttered, exactly – it was that she cut herself off, she stopped and she started and Aldon thought that every broken piece of thought was precious.

"The wedding was at home, in California, actually," she said, though Aldon wasn't sure how that was relevant. "We were invited because the groom's mother – she babysat me until I was four, and I guess – I guess she wanted to see me. It was a little weird, everyone kept talking about how much I had grown, how much bigger I was, but – but I was fourteen, by then, it had been a decade, so of _course_ I had grown?"

Aldon laughed, a soft chuckle that didn't really sound like him – but then, he didn't often laugh because he found things _funny_. When he laughed, it was often sharp, mocking, a little cruel, but he didn't want to be cruel to _her_. "And then?"

"It was, um, the usual Chinese wedding. Red and gold everywhere, ten-course Cantonese meal with all the rice and noodles at the end so no one can finish it. I didn't know anyone except my parents and my mother was doing that _thing_, you know—"

"What thing?" Aldon had his guesses, but there were so many _things_ that Francesca's mother did that he wasn't sure which one she had meant.

"The _look at how perfect my daughter is_ thing, so I'm wearing this little black dress and bra that adds two cup sizes while she talks about how great I am in that backhanded way, like _oh, you're so lucky that your son is at home to help you, Francesca is away at that boarding school all year_ when she knows perfectly well that the guy failed out of San Jose State and – well, anyway." Francesca paused, taking a breath. "That's not important. The weird part came during the speeches, at the end, when the sister of the groom starts telling us all this story and I realize – the bride is a _mail order bride_."

"A… what, sorry?" Aldon asked, a little confused. The words made sense, but how on earth did one order a bride by mail?

"Oh, it's a thing, where if you can't find a wife you can sort of, um, import one? From a poorer country?" Francesca's voice was hesitant, but a little scornful. "It's really – I don't like it. It – it feels like profiting off the desperate. But I shouldn't – I shouldn't really have said that she was one, she really wasn't. But it was like – the groom's sister said that this wedding could have happened five years ago, if only the groom had gone to Vietnam when they told him to – to go meet her. They were both in their late twenties, early thirties, at the time. And then, I guess because he didn't go, she came to California, and then I guess – I don't know. Six months later, they're getting married. I suppose it's not – it's not quite an arranged marriage, but it's close?"

"That sounds very arranged to me, if somewhat informal." Aldon laughed again, rolling back onto his back, careful to keep one hand on the communication link. "They specifically said he should meet her, then they arranged the meeting, and then they got married."

There was a pause from Francesca's end, and he glanced over at his orb. That was her thinking silence, not her waiting silence. "Francesca?"

"I wouldn't do it," she said, unusually clear and blunt. "I wouldn't want anyone to make that choice for me. I would rather be alone with my ACD and my romance novels forever than have someone else make such a fundamental choice for me."

Aldon smiled, looking back up at his ceiling. "Now – I wouldn't either. I would like to think that I can do better than settling for someone who is just _tolerable_. You're a bad influence, Francesca – you and Archie both."

She giggled, and the sound felt nice, in his ear.

XXX

Archie stared at the letter, which enclosed an invitation. It was a different sort of invitation than he was used to seeing. He had not really expected an invitation to the SOW Party Gala this year – he wasn't Harry, bosom friends with Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, Heirs to prominent SOW Party families both. He wasn't Harry, brilliant, magically powerful, likely Neutral. He was Archie Black, Healer-in-Training at the American Institute of Magic, openly fighting against pureblood supremacy, recently stripped of his Family's gift, as Light as they came. Dad, too, had rejoined Light politics, throwing both the Black and Potter votes against the Marriage Law, not that it mattered when _five_ Light faction seats, including the Longbottoms, had turned. Archie hadn't been able to believe it, when he saw the voting lists published in _Bridge_.

_I know what you're thinking, Archie, but it isn't the first time the Longbottoms have voted against the Light, _Dad had written, in one of his letters. _They're impoverished and struggling, and Lady Augusta Longbottom is most interested in ensuring that their noble line continues, preferably with an injection of money. They aren't for pureblood supremacy, but they also don't have any halfbloods among their number – we've always counted on Lily to bring a human face to the issue for them, and to give them just enough hope not to turn on us as they did in 1981. If you're in contact with Harry, Arch, tell her the Longbottoms offered – I declined it on the basis of your supposed engagement, but that will only go so far with them. Tell her if she returns, she should avoid Lady Longbottom at all costs – and Neville, just to be sure. I also managed to turn down about eight other offers for her, but I had to spin a bit of a story saying that I was waiting for you to come to your senses – sorry about that. _

Archie didn't care. Dad could say whatever he needed to turn down Harry's marriage offers that she couldn't turn down herself. As long as he wouldn't actually be forced to marry Harry, and as long as he could terminate the fake betrothal quickly and easily when he was ready to propose to Hermione in a few years, Archie was fine with it. Hermione was less than happy about Archie's on-paper betrothal, but she had accepted it – begrudgingly, unwillingly, but she had. There were lines she wouldn't cross while the betrothal existed, being _anything beyond kissing_, but so long as she was there, beside him, Archie could live with the boundaries she set.

The invitation, though. He turned it over in his fingers. It was purple, embossed in gold, from the Ministry of Magic itself. The backing of the envelope had an elegant cut-out pattern, lace in paper form, and Archie was careful as he pulled it open.

The words on the page, black, sparkled with glitter charms. _Arcturus Rigel Black, cordially invited to the Unity Ball hosted by the Ministry of Magic… demonstration of the unity of Wizarding Britain… proceeds to be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies._

Archie raised an eyebrow at the price. Fifty Galleons per person? That was a lot – Harry had paid around that much each month for her rent in the Lower Alleys, though Archie guessed that her apartment had not been very expensive, as things went. But the proceeds would go to St. Mungo's, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. It was _different_, and through experience, he was wary of anything the Ministry did that was _different._

He glanced down at his letter from Dad, but Dad only said that he had received an invitation too, and that they should talk. Archie stared at the line for a minute, frowning, before he realized what it meant. There were things Dad didn't say, and perhaps his owls were still being monitored. But they needed to talk, and Archie knew how they could do it. Chess had a communication link with Aldon, something about her ACD project, and as long as they had the two of them there, they could _talk_, without the risk of their plans being heard by the Ministry.

Even with that in mind, he nearly missed her as she prepared to leave from dance practice.

"Sorry!" he called over his shoulder at Evin, whom he was rehearsing with for the moment, hopping off the stage and making a mad dash for his friend. "I'll be right back – Chess! No, Chess, I need to talk to you!"

She turned around, swinging a black leather messenger bag over her shoulder, pulling a wad of paper spells from the zippered pocket on the top flap. "What is it, Archie? I'm running a bit late for my meeting with Aldon…"

"Aldon will wait for you." Archie smiled, a little amused – Francesca talked about Aldon every now and then, the slightest spark in her eyes as she did, and Archie thought she might have a bit of a crush on the older boy. But there had also been a hint of something else in the past week or so, something almost like resignation, disappointment, a bit of sadness, and he wondered. "I just wanted to say, I need to talk to Dad. And maybe Al, too, but we need to use your comm link. Could you mention it to him, organize something for, I don't know, this weekend?"

Francesca nodded, though she had a bit of a frown. She tugged at the collar of her shirt, sliding her paper spells inside. "What for, if you don't mind me asking? If he asks?"

"Ministry Unity Ball," Archie replied, shaking his head. "I don't know what to make of the invitation, and I need to talk to Dad about it."

"Oh, that – Aldon got one too, a few days ago," Francesca replied, her expression clearing, tilting her head in consideration. "He's convinced the invitation is a ploy to trap him with the Marriage Law. I'll talk to him and we'll organise something. Saturday?"

"Yeah, Saturday works. In the morning? I have to file some reports for _Bridge_." Archie glanced back at his troupe-mates, spotting Evin tapping a foot, arms crossed in exaggerated annoyance. "I have to get back to rehearsal – thanks!"

Francesca nodded again, waving awkwardly at him and skipping out of the auditorium.

Archie waited impatiently until Saturday, which was a whole _three days away_ – it had been _months_ since he had heard Dad's voice, and even if he knew that he had gone longer without seeing Dad, without hearing from him, without the ruse in place he _missed_ Dad more than he ever had before. They wrote often, as often as Archie had always written to Aunt Lily and Uncle James, but it just wasn't the same as hearing his voice, being able to talk without the Ministry possibly reading all their mail. Archie's letters were reserved for the things that were light, the sort of thing that any kid wrote home about, like the food, the town nearby, Archie's role in the school play. They couldn't write about the Marriage Law, not really, nor most political things, if only because Archie was pretty sure his thoughts on most of it would get him arrested. Again.

Fortunately, Francesca had talked Aldon into having the meeting at nine in the morning their time, or two in the afternoon in Britain. He was excited all through breakfast, polishing off his eggs and bacon and toast in record time, then bouncing into the meeting room that Hermione had booked for them a full fifteen minutes early. The last fifteen minutes positively _crawled _by, with Archie shifting position in his chair every thirty seconds or so, waiting. It was fourteen minutes to go, then thirteen minutes until he could hear Dad's voice, then twelve…

Francesca and John showed up exactly on time, John levitating a tray of tea.

"So?" Archie said, perking up, eager as Francesca rolled her eyes. She reached into her messenger bag, pulling out a pale green orb, which glowed softly. "Dad! Dad, are you there?"

"And there's Archie," he heard Aldon's voice grumble from the orb. "I also have Neal, here. This is a good time for us to discuss the situation more generally; a good deal has happened on our end, over the past few months. You've been following along in _Bridge_, no doubt, but there's more – quite a lot more."

"That you haven't mentioned to us, Aldon?" Dad said, his voice a mix of annoyance and amusement. Archie could almost picture Dad's face when he said it, too.

"I wasn't sure of the need, Lord Black," Aldon replied bluntly. "And when would I have done so?"

"You could have come over _anytime_, Aldon," Dad replied, with a bit of a sigh. "And it's Sirius, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Sirius, if there's one thing I have figured out about Aldon in the past few months, it's that you need to _threaten_ him into telling you anything." That was Neal, and Archie couldn't help but grin – it had been so long since he had heard from Neal, too! "Or bribe him. Both work, but the bribing gets hard on your pocketbook after awhile."

"How's the nobility treating you, Neal?" John asked, with a wide grin of his own, leaning forward to talk into the orb. "How's the Wizengamot?"

"_Câlissez_ the Wizengamot," Neal replied, his voice resigned. "I want to die every time I walk in there. Better yet, I want to stab seventy-five percent of the people in the room. I bet if I had my cousin with me, she would help. Fei is into that kind of thing, her room at Queenscove is stocked with weapons, and she would love the chance to use them. How's Duelling Club, John? Kel's going to win the tournament again, but any rising up and comers?"

"Owen's getting pretty good," John reported with a bit of a grin. "He'll break top sixteen this year, maybe even top eight. Fal's aiming for a podium finish this year, though Kel still demolishes him, but he might make it."

"A top three AIM finish would be great, though," Neal mused, his voice thoughtful from the other end. "We haven't managed _that_ since the Alanna days. Mom yelled at Graeme for _weeks_ about not making a podium finish in his sixth year. It was awesome."

"Can we get to the purpose of this conversation?" Aldon's voice cut in, some mix of annoyed and bored. "I _do_ have better things than to sit here and enable a conversation about duelling, namely, teaching Queenscove how to write proper formal correspondence so I don't have to dictate his letters for him."

Archie heard Neal groaning and swearing in the background, but Aldon plowed on as if Neal had said nothing. "Francesca, who do you have on your end, other than Archie and John?"

Aldon's voice was subtly softer when he addressed Chess, and Archie's eyebrows went up. He glanced at John, who had a slight frown on his face, and shook his head very slightly. Chess herself had a tiny smile as she held up the pale green communication orb.

"Only Hermione," she reported. "So, it's Archie, John, Hermione and I here, and you, Sirius, and Neal there. Is that right?"

"That's right," Aldon said, and there was a pause, the sound of some shuffling on the other end of the connection, as if someone was shifting some papers around. "So, _Bridge_. I am unsure of what you've heard about the public reception?"

"Not much at all." Hermione scowled as she leaned forwards towards the communication link. "Because _you_ haven't been telling us anything."

"You certainly haven't asked, either," Aldon replied, and Archie could almost picture him smirking. "Not as yourself, not even as _otter_. When would I have the chance?"

"You could have _made_ time," Hermione snapped.

"I'll book it in between my two income-earning jobs, along with reviewing _Bridge_ before it is printed so that, in the unlikely event that any of _you_ are arrested, they have a much harder time convicting you of anything, and networking on your behalf, then." Aldon's voice was bored, even a little contemptuous, as if Hermione's response had been completely unreasonable. Hermione glared at the orb, pressing her lips together tightly, and Archie reached out to pat her on the shoulder.

She glanced at Archie, scowling. _An upper-class, patronizing asshat, _she mouthed to him, and Archie hid a laugh, shaking his head, while John snorted.

_He's kind of funny, though_, Archie mouthed back, with a slight grin. _Take it on the chin, 'Mione._

Hermione rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

"In any case, _Bridge_ is making a huge impact, in the right corners," Aldon was saying, having dropped the contempt from his voice. "We have support from at least four of the Scottish clans at the moment, as well as a promise of support from Wales, assuming my contact there pulls through – and you can thank me later for recruiting _kelpie_. We've also been banned at Hogwarts."

"Banned at Hogwarts?" Archie repeated, leaning forwards, looking down at the orb and frowning. "Aldon, aren't you supposed to keep things like this from happening? We need to be getting into Hogwarts, building support for the cause—"

There was a sharp bark of laughter from the other end, and even Hermione seemed to be smiling as she poked him to stop him talking. "No, that's _excellent_, Archie," she breathed, turning to him. "That means people who weren't reading it before will be reading it now, and people who _were_ reading it before are more committed. Banning something will just make people more curious, especially in the atmosphere that _kelpie_ reports, when it sounds like more than half the school is already up in arms!"

"Hermione is right," Aldon said, and he didn't even sound begrudging about it, only amused. "Speaking of which, Archie, I wonder if you might reach out to Riordan, at Ilvermorny? I'm not sure how much you know about her…"

"Saoirse?" Archie blinked, surprised. "Uh, Hermione knows her better, through the British Students Association?"

"She's a traditional caster out of Ireland," Hermione said, her expression turning thoughtful as she looked at the little orb Francesca held in her hands. "She's connected with the traditional community there, that's all I know. She sometimes writes articles for the Gaelic paper, the _Nuachtlitir Draoi_."

"My contact in Wales says she's one of the most powerful traditional casters in Ireland right now, and that she's part of a group called the _Tuatha D__é__. _The Irish… apparently still rebel against Wizarding British rule, every few decades." There was a pause, through which Archie thought he heard Dad suck in a breath, but Aldon continued. "My contact referred to her as one of their _high priestesses_ and says they probably number in the hundreds. I have no personal connection with her, so if one of you could reach out, see what it takes to get the _Tuatha D__é_'s support, that would be very helpful."

"Wait a minute, Aldon." Dad's voice was sharp, almost shocked, and Archie could just imagine him leaning forward, wherever they were, scowling at Aldon. "You are not – this isn't a _war_, Aldon. You're seeking allies, you're thinking about making treaties as if it is a war, but it isn't one."

Another pause, and Aldon's reply was slow, contemplative. "But isn't there a war, Lord Black? Did you not read the analysis we published after the fire at the Bulstrode mansion?"

A pause, and Archie felt his heart sinking, just a little. Hadn't Dad been reading _Bridge_? Archie just assumed that he was, but in his letters, he had never asked. He just assumed that Dad would, because _Archie_ was writing for it, no matter how secret that fact was supposed to be. And Archie's interview had been in it, and so many other great articles!

"I – I have," Dad replied finally, the slight stutter telling Archie more than anything else. "I might have missed that particular piece, though."

Aldon snorted, and Archie couldn't help but feel disappointed. He didn't need Aldon to tell him that Dad was lying, at least partially – maybe Dad was reading _Archie's_ articles, as _simba_, but he wasn't doing anything more than skimming the rest, if even that. The analysis of the Bulstrode fire in connection with the other three attacks had been their front page, two weeks ago.

"The long and the short of it, Lord Black, is that we have a terrorist in Wizarding Britain, one who was resurrected in the Triwizard Tournament final last year by Harriett Potter's blood," Aldon said, his voice carrying just a hint of derision. "He – or rather, his followers – were behind the attack on the Quidditch World Cup, then I imagine he went underground to recruit through much of last year until the Tournament. Then, this year, he was undoubtedly behind the Hogwarts train attack and the arson at the Bulstrode residence. The skull-and-serpent symbol is quite distinctive, and it must just be galling him that his mark is not being recognized."

"The _Daily Prophet_ called them copy-cat incidents, though, and the fire was a tragedy and a prank," Dad pointed out, but his voice was hesitant, and Archie knew that he didn't believe the _Daily Prophet _either. Dad just wanted things to be safe for Archie, he thought. A war was not safe – a terrorist on the loose was not safe, especially when Archie had made a target of himself over the summer. A war was the farthest thing from safe that Dad could imagine, and even if Dad wouldn't put his head in the sand, he would maybe test unwelcome theories a little more soundly, and accept welcome theories a little more easily than he would otherwise. "Apparently, the symbol isn't difficult to mimic – just a runic illusion charm."

Archie glanced at Chess, but he could tell in an instant from the expression on her face, the slight curl of her lip, that that wasn't true, and who knew better than a runic paper witch? She didn't answer, though, her dark eyes focused on her orb as she heard Aldon begin his reply.

"The _Daily Prophet _is lying. I have a NEWT in runes, and I'm sure that Francesca would agree with me, but although something like this _is_ possible with runic illusion charms, that isn't how they're doing it. The symbol is staying far longer than it should. If it were a runic illusion charm, it would fade quickly and disappear once the caster has left, whereas this symbol lingers for hours afterwards. You could convince me that the caster stayed at the Quidditch World Cup and _maybe_ at the Bulstrode fire, but not at the Hogwarts Express attack."

"Aldon is right," Chess said, her soft voice unusually firm. She glanced over at John, who poured her a mug of tea, adding sugar to it for her. "Also, I would add that, um, this is a complex illusion. Things like glitter spells, fog, sparks, those sorts of things are easy, but I think something like this would take, umm… a hundred runes to describe, in the Western system? In the Chinese system, I think I could base the design off a mental image, but – but if they were doing that then, I think, it would be different each time. The colour would be off, or the shape, or the length of the serpent. And the image would waver, because the caster needs to focus on his image to keep it steady."

"Few people in Wizarding Britain would know how to do it runically anyway – it would likely need a Runes Master or Runes Mistress." Aldon's voice was final. "Runes are not typically taught as a full spellcasting system, here. It's probably a charm that our new resident terrorist has developed himself, for his movement."

"But what reason would the _Daily Prophet_ have to lie about this?" Dad asked. It wasn't that Dad didn't believe them, Archie thought, but a genuine question. "I'm not doubting that the _Daily Prophet_ would lie, but they don't do it without a reason. Why this? The Ministry and the SOW Party can't have anything to do with it – the last two strikes were clearly aimed at the SOW Party, really. An attack on the Hogwarts Express, right after Lord Riddle has promised safety to Hogwarts? Then, an attack on the Bulstrodes, one of the top Ministry and SOW Party families?"

Aldon laughed again, this time with something almost like dark amusement. "Because they're already at war, Lord Black, just not openly. Both the Hogwarts train attack and the Bulstrode fire were strikes by the terrorist against the SOW Party and the Ministry. I imagine that the Ministry has struck back, and that they've been raiding the more suspect areas of Wizarding Britain for some time, but it hasn't been reported and _Bridge _has no correspondents who would be in the know. We ought to fix that – we would need someone right in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, if we can. War doesn't need to happen on a battlefield, with flags."

"With the Statute of Secrecy, it wouldn't be anyway." Neal's voice was calm, thoughtful. "My swordplay tutor used to tell me that most wizarding wars were fought as secretly as possible, so as not to disturb No-Majs."

"But that doesn't explain _why_ the _Daily Prophet_ is covering it up," Dad said, his tone more puzzled than anything else. Archie frowned, worried – Dad would always support him, he knew, and he wasn't worried that Dad would betray him or anything, but he had hoped for more. The summer, Archie thought, could be explained by shock – it had taken Archie months to come to terms with fact that Mum had died of a treatable condition, and then for him to decide to take a stand. But Dad just wasn't there yet, with him, and he wasn't sure how he could _bring_ Dad there. He reached for the teapot, pouring himself a mug, just to give himself something to do.

"The _Daily Prophet_ is being propped up by the Ministry and by the SOW Party – if they're at war and being attacked, I would imagine they would want to sway the public to their side, to push everyone against the terrorist," Dad continued, his voice gaining strength as he made his point. "Instead, by hiding it, all they've done is make it easier for them to recruit and hit targets."

"That is true," Aldon conceded, though from his tone, Aldon didn't think that it was an insurmountable obstacle. "There are a number of potential explanations."

Something jogged at Archie's memory, and he frowned, taking a sip from his mug of tea. "Here's a thought. Harry said that the terrorist is like Lord Riddle, but more extreme. Maybe they're connected, and it's a somehow embarrassing connection that Lord Riddle himself can't stand to have out?"

A pause. "I had considered something like that," Aldon admitted, considering. "But Harriett has actually spoken to him, and if she herself has drawn the connection, I think that it is a likely answer. I did note that our new resident terrorist looks much like a younger Lord Riddle. And, in that case, Lord Riddle is trying to put the threat down quietly while attempting to maintain normalcy, to save himself from embarrassment, which also works with the fact that the Ministry has been almost suspiciously silent in many other areas – particularly, us. Aside from the Marriage Law, there seems to have been little in the way of activity in recent months from the SOW Party."

"It would even kind of make sense with the Ministry Unity Ball," Neal added, his tone vaguely disgusted. "I mean, not that I know anything other than what you've told me, Blake, but you said this Unity Ball is different from years past. They're charging a hefty ticket fee – whatever they've said about donating the proceeds to St. Mungo's, seen in the light of a war, it's a move. They want to show the terrorist that Wizarding Britain is a united front, but it's also a taunt. The terrorist attacked a _train full of children_ because Lord Riddle said that they would be safe. He's not going to ignore a huge gala event where Lord Riddle is showing that Wizarding Britain stands united. _Osti, _we're _bait_."

"Proceeds going to St. Mungo's is therefore an enticement for us to come," Hermione said, pursing her lips a little in thought. "It's telling us that it's for a good cause, and the ticket price will go to good use – but with those prices, I expect that they've conjured extensive fees to hold the event itself, and therefore St. Mungo's won't see much out of it. It's funding for the Ministry, if they are quietly at war."

"So, we don't go," Archie concluded, taking another sip of his tea, thinking it over. "It's dangerous, and while I don't mind a spot of danger, I don't want to play into Lord Riddle's plans. We _don't_ stand united with him, and I don't want to be bait."

"I wouldn't make that decision so quickly, Archie," Aldon interrupted, considering. "The Unity Ball is unlike anything we've ever seen before. It's not the SOW Party fundraiser, where one may only attend with a specific invitation, even if Lord Riddle seems to be trying to make this an equivalent event more palatable to Light families. One can _purchase tickets_ to the Unity Ball, we don't need a specific invitation, though they have gone out of their way to invite anyone they would particularly like to attend. Lord Riddle has tried to price the event beyond the means of the rabble, but low enough that all of his own people, including the impoverished nobility, can afford to buy tickets for themselves and their families; but that means it's open to a lot of people who wouldn't otherwise attend the SOW Party Gala."

"Get to the point, Aldon," Hermione snapped, though she didn't really sound angry about it. "What does that mean, both for the Ball and for us? Why should _we_ be attending?"

Aldon sighed heavily, exasperated. "As should be patently obvious, Hermione, the people who will be at the Unity Ball are going to be quite different than from something like the SOW Party Gala. There will be Light families, Neutrals, Guild members, both noble and non-noble. This is an opportunity for us to get our views out there, for us to promote _our_ message to people there who aren't readers of _Bridge_. We can steal some part of the limelight for our cause, if we play it right."

"Um, but, Aldon," Francesca protested, her face was openly worried, a small furrow in her brow as she looked down at her orb. "You said that your invitation was a trap to get you into the wizarding world so someone could trap you with the Marriage Law."

There was a pause from the orb. "Oh, it _is_ a trap for me. When I said _we, _I didn't mean _I_, specifically—"

"Oh, no," Neal's voice came over the orb, and there was a sound like an _oof_, of someone being pushed or shoved suddenly. "No, absolutely not. If you're going to tell the rest of us to go and put on a good face for widespread emancipation and blood equality, you're coming too. _Câlisse,_ I am _not_ doing a British formal event without you by my side. I refuse."

"Would you like to make me a formal offer then, Queenscove?" Aldon drawled, his voice hiding a laugh. "We haven't covered formal proposals of marriage yet, but I can make an exception. If you and I are betrothed, then I will be under your protection, and I could attend with no fear whatsoever. Won't that be nice?"

"_Tabernak_." John started laughing, and Archie couldn't help smiling – Neal sounded horrified. Clearly, he and Aldon were getting along.

"I didn't think so. But I do think it would be a good idea for you to attend, in force – get tickets for the whole extended family, and then some. This is a good opportunity for House Queenscove – up until now, the wizarding nobility has only seen you alone, or you and your mother. Bring your brothers, your closest friends – anyone you think would come to your assistance if you called. Bring that girl you keep mooning about. You can afford it. The same goes for you, Lord Black, Archie."

There was a pause as Archie thought it over, but Hermione leaned forward, reaching for the teapot herself. "You're not wrong, but if there are hundreds of people there, I don't see that this will really make much of a difference. We would be less than twenty people, especially if you don't attend – not exactly an impressive showing. How can we possibly make a memorable impact?"

Another pause. "We do something – not anything threatening or dangerous, but something impressive, something people will talk about afterwards. I – hmm – Francesca."

"Yes?" Chess looked up from the mug of tea that she had been drinking, peering into her orb.

"Would you go? And dance there?" Aldon's voice really was different when he spoke to her directly – it lost much of its sharpness, its sarcasm, its mocking overtones. He glanced at John, who had the frown on his face again, which was as good as confirmation. There was something going on there, and John wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Aldon's voice was inquiring, a little hopeful. "I only saw your dance once, but it was beautiful, impressive – I do not think that it is something that most people in Wizarding Britain would have seen before."

"I—" Francesca hesitated. "You said most dancing in your world is pairs – I don't really – well, I _can_ – but, um – all the people there, I don't…"

She threw John a look of desperation, and John cut in. "It wouldn't really make sense, to have Chess go up and do a performance out of nowhere, Aldon_, _especially if dance is nearly exclusively done in pairs in Wizarding Britain. Chess would need a partner who could do magical dance, and she would need a story – something with a true construct, something that makes sense and that others would believe. Archie knows enough to dance with her—"

"Not me," Archie interjected, shaking his head quickly. "If I go, it's with Hermione. Hermione's been by my side this entire time, she's in the pictures beside me when I got arrested at the airport, she's in the pictures from the trial with me – it doesn't make any sense for me to now be attending the Unity Ball with Chess, or to do that kind of performance. I should say that my magical dance skills aren't that good, anyway – basically, all I do is the noble dancing we're taught, but in the air."

"I _could _do a performance, but I suspect that you would want me to bring Gerry, if I can." John tilted his head, thinking, and Archie couldn't help but be surprised. He always was – John played at being an athletic idiot, a jock, and he was very good at it. His marks in Healing were in the middle of the pack, passing but not standing out, unlike Archie and Hermione who were the top of their respective programs or, in Archie's case, _both_ of his respective programs. It was so easy to forget that John was actually very smart, he just focused his time and energy elsewhere. "Gerry and I can represent the promise of international trade and alliances if things go right. Both of us are from prominent, international families, strongly anti-pureblood supremacy. And Gerry was the driving force behind Germany's new blood refugee program, which just got instituted by the Wizarding Nordic Union as well. I think you want us there talking to people about _that_."

"That would… be good," Aldon admitted, a little begrudging. "Queenscove, _you _can't dance at all, but is there any chance that anyone in your extended families or friends who could come can do magical dance?"

"No, sorry," Neal said, with a slight clicking noise and a sigh. "None of my family members or friends got into it, we're mostly duellers. And, like John and Gerry, you probably want us as who we are – Queenscove is well-connected. I can bring, let's see… My parents will come, my brothers Graeme and Will, and Will will of course bring Tina, and my sister Jessa. My cousins Fei and Dom might be able to make it, too. And I'll invite Yuki and Kel – Kel is good because her family is also in international affairs, and I know Kel would drop everything in an instant to help me out, no questions asked. Again, we're all better being there to represent globalism, the promise of what might be if certain things about Wizarding Britain changed."

"And Archie, Hermione, Lord Black and Mr. Lupin are best there as a balance for the lot of you, calming fears that we somehow lose our culture or our status by becoming open to a new world. It's best if you are all very proper and professional, standing somewhere between Lord Dumbledore's Light faction and Queenscove and his international allies." Aldon sighed, a sound of frustration.

Archie exchanged a look with everyone on his side of the connection, thinking it over. Aldon was right that Chess' dance would make a big splash – it was magical, but it was also beautiful, the exact kind of show that the nobility loved, and they knew nothing about it. John was frowning, a slight scowl on his face as if he could see where this was going and didn't like it one bit, while Francesca was impassive, focused on her mug of tea. Hermione was frowning too, but Archie thought she was only thinking, rather than annoyed – or, rather not any more annoyed than she usually was, when it came to Aldon.

"Is… magical dance very difficult?" Aldon's voice, coming across the comm link, was different, hesitant.

Archie glanced at Chess, who seemed somewhat flummoxed. She shrugged helplessly, glancing down at the orb, and Archie took that as his permission to reply. "Er – I didn't find it to be that bad? Coming from a noble background, though, I already knew how to dance, I just needed to learn the air-hardening runes and get comfortable using them. It took me… a month or so? I don't remember anymore. But you're also already more comfortable with runes, so I think you'd pick it up faster."

There was another pause, and when Aldon spoke again, he almost seemed to be embarrassed. "I have an idea. It's believable, and we could show a different facet, making an impact on everyone there. I–"

He cut himself off, and that was so unlike him that Archie just stared at the pale green orb for a second.

"What are you thinking, Aldon?" Neal's voice came through, sounding a little amused, as if he was stifling a laugh. "Just say it, whatever it is."

"Well, with you and John, and Archie there representing more staid political interests, magical dance is something that shows something else – new magical developments that can occur with inspiration from the Muggle world, or if we can work in something with the ACD, new technological developments in spell-casting as well," Aldon said, all hint of embarrassment gone for the moment, though Archie could see clearly where this was going and covered his mouth to smother his snicker. John already had his head in his hands, and Hermione was rolling her eyes, while Chess was looking away, lips pressed tightly together.

"Blake, stop justifying yourself with academic drivel," Neal ordered, the hint of a laugh behind his stern tone, and there was a hard bang as if the older boy had slapped the table. "I'll cut your bonus, see if I don't."

Aldon sighed, and there was another moment of silence. "If I could learn the basics of magical dance before the Unity Ball, I could bring Francesca. We could – well, I'm already _persona non grata _in wizarding Society. They want me to come crawling back, looking to fit in, but I've essentially been rejected. We can – there's a story we could tell, that would make sense, that would let us show off magical dance and make an impact."

"A _story_," Neal drawled from the other side, sounding deeply skeptical. He was a good actor, Archie had to admit – he had no idea how Neal was deadpanning this, because it was _hysterical_. "Tell me this _story_, Blake. I'm afraid I don't know it."

"Must I?" Aldon sighed heavily, and Archie could hear Dad starting to chuckle on the other side. "Very well, but only because you are all _clearly_ too dense to see it otherwise. The story goes like this: A certain halfblood bastard, revealed after a certain trial, meets one of Archie Black's Muggleborn friends. He falls in love. He rejects whatever opportunities arise to rejoin Society because he can't bring her with him, and he would rather reject everything he has ever known for a chance to be with her. That's the basics of it. How is that, for a _true construct_? Believable?"

"Sounds like more acting than you're capable of, frankly," Neal said, before bursting into loud peals of laughter. Archie could hear Dad, too, absolutely losing it on the other end, the cacophony of sound echoing out of their comm link. Archie put his head in his hands, even if he couldn't help his own laughter from coming out. Aldon's expression must have been priceless – he wished Neal or Dad had a camera to take a picture of it for him.

"But—" Francesca hesitated, ignoring the laughter, stubbornly refusing to react even of her cheeks were painted a pink with embarrassment. "How would that keep it from being a trap for you, Aldon? Um, won't people still be able to give you formal proposals of marriage if you appear in wizarding society?"

Aldon coughed, clearly still humiliated. "Er, well, with you on my arm, I don't think anyone would dare. I would, er, be destroying what reputation I have left. Most of my attractiveness as a marriage partner relates to how I was raised, the skills I have, the connections I have – until now, while Society has rejected me on the basis of my blood status and my background, _I_ have not been publicly seen to reject _it_. This would, er, put an end to that, so to speak. No one of status would want to marry their children to me."

"You mean," Archie prodded, sprinkling his words with false innocence, "you're a bad boy rebel now, are you, Aldon?"

"I could lend you my leather jacket and motorcycle," Dad choked out. "No, wait, I could _buy_ you your own leather jacket and motorcycle! Do you know how to drive?"

There was a cool silence, and Archie could imagine the glares that Aldon must have been shooting at Neal and Dad from across the Atlantic. "I _mean_, that there is a risk, but I think that… it may be attenuated enough that I could attend."

"This all still requires Chess to _agree_," John snapped, cutting through the laughter like a blunt hammer, a heavy scowl on his face. "You've laid out why it's a good idea, you've set out the story you would tell, but you haven't _asked_ Chess if she'll do it. And we're all speaking in hypotheticals, anyway. Are we doing this, or not?"

There was a long pause, the laughter dying out, before Neal spoke, sighing. "Well, it's what would be expected of a noble lord, and Queenscove itself seems to like the idea. My mother would approve, too. And if I go, then hell if you're not coming, Blake. You and my entire extended family. I'll have Kel or Dom look after you if I have to, or you can have a fake relationship with Fei or something, I don't know. Mind, Fei could eat you for breakfast and want seconds, so that doesn't really make any sense."

"I don't know _any_ of those people, Queenscove," Aldon retorted. "It wouldn't be believable. Lord Black? Archie? I will leave the decision in your hands."

Archie took a deep breath, trying to think it through. On one hand, Aldon was right – _Bridge_ was making waves, but not everyone read _Bridge. _It wasn't something that was likely to penetrate the highest echelons of society, not if even Dad wasn't reading it in its entirety. From what Aldon had said, it was getting notice largely among non-nobles or people who already had a reason to mistrust the _Daily Prophet_. This was an opportunity for them push their message into broader Wizarding Britain, into the hands of people who might have more power to do something. He had no doubt that he and Hermione, Dad and Uncle Remus, could put forward a good picture of balance, showing that change wouldn't destroy everything as they knew it. He trusted that John and Gerry, and Neal and his family, would do a great job showing how interconnected the world was, representing many of the international governments that disapproved of Wizarding Britain. He even thought that Aldon and Chess would, if they did pull off the dance, manage to show the cultural and technological side of what could be gained by becoming more open to the No Maj world.

But it would also be dangerous. If Aldon was right about the terrorist and the war happening beneath their notice, and for the moment Archie would assume that he was, then the Ball would be a target. People had _died_, in the Bulstrode fire. But on the other hand, an opportunity like this didn't come easily, and Archie didn't know when something like this would come up again.

"I think we have to go," Archie said finally. "It's just too good of an opportunity for us, but we'll have to go prepared. Dad?"

A pause, then a sigh. "If you're committed to going, Archie, then so am I. At least Remus will be able to come this year, too. But we stick together, and we leave early – we'll make our points, and we'll get out, as soon as we can. And we'll have to be ready for anything, so I'll arrange for portable Portkeys for everyone, too. They might not work within the Ministry itself, but as long as we can get clear of the building, we can Portkey or Apparate back. It's the best we can do."

Archie nodded, reaching for his long-since cold mug of tea. "That works for me."

"Very well." Aldon sighed heavily. "If that's the plan, then, Francesca, would you kindly do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to the Ministry Unity Ball, that you may watch me completely destroy what is left of my reputation in Society?"

"I – um." Francesca's cheeks were pink, but she was looking away, her expression somehow sad. "Yes, I suppose you can."

XXX

He's gay, she told herself sternly. He's gay, he doesn't mean anything by it, and you _really_ need to stop falling for the gay ones.

It didn't really help, because feelings were like that. Aldon was special, and she wasn't really sure when that happened. Maybe it was when he took the math test that she threw at him and worked through it, not a hint of a complaint over more than an hour. Maybe it was watching him work out the fundamental theory of calculus for the first time, the light of triumph that had lit his face. Maybe it was when she took him to a university bookstore, dropped textbooks of math and physics in his arms, and he looked more excited than he did terrified. Maybe it was the way he chewed on his lower lip as he worked through some of the textbooks, with that stubborn expression that _no, he wouldn't ask, he would work it out himself _that he would wear when he got stuck, for _hours_. Maybe it was the fact that he was in many ways as awkward as Francesca herself was, covering it up with a veneer of sarcasm and mockery – but not with her. Never with her.

Maybe it was the fact that, unlike pretty much every other mage Francesca had ever met, Aldon took the fact that she didn't have a wand in stride. He had been curious, but he hadn't _asked_, and he never made Francesca feel like she was weird, somehow different, for not having one. John and everyone in Duelling, they all reacted with some measure of protectiveness: Francesca didn't have a wand and she couldn't _protect _herself, so they went out of their way to defend her, like a small, helpless kitten that had been declawed. Archie reacted with a bit of sorrow, like Francesca was somehow _missing_ something, like something had been cut off from her that could never be replaced, and Francesca had never really forgotten the prank he had played on her in first year. And Hermione, well, Hermione was just confused. Hermione didn't know how to handle her, and she never had, and even though she _understood _the explanation of why Francesca could never have a wand, there was always going to be a part of her that didn't understand, the part that went _but why can't you just – oh, right._ Aldon, for the most part, just ignored the fact that Francesca was Wandless, treated her just the same and assumed that she could do everything he could unless she said otherwise.

Or maybe it was the ACD. Aldon was _perfect _with the ACD – he understood her, he understood what she wanted with it. The ACD wasn't just a cool toy or an interesting accessory to her. The ACD was the future of spellcasting itself, and when it was ready to be released, she wanted it to take the world by storm. She wanted it to be _unthinkable_ not to have an ACD, she wanted every mage everywhere to have one, more than they relied on wands, more than they relied on heirlooms and paper spells and runes. Aldon _understood_ that, she thought, and not even John understood that.

Francesca had lied, a little bit, when she told Aldon that she had loved John. It wasn't a huge lie – in some ways it was very true. Words didn't really express how she felt about John. Love was just the closest she could get to it.

John was the one who had intimate access to her mind, as she did to him. In many ways, that made them closer than lovers, closer than siblings, something else entirely. John was her _other half_, and there _was_ a part of her that continually compared anyone she ever met to John. At some points, long in the past, she had wondered if he might become her romantic partner too, but that had been squashed before it had really become anything when John had come out as gay. It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn't completely true either, and it was the closest that she could come to connecting with Aldon in that instant.

But the truth was, how she felt about Aldon was completely different than how she felt about John. John was John – John was her best friend, brother, and parasitic mind raider all in one. She loved him always, but she wasn't _fascinated_ by him, she didn't find every single one of John's words worth waiting for or hanging onto, the way he formed his vowels and consonants enchanting. She didn't treasure John's laughter.

Aldon is gay, she repeated to herself, striding back towards her dorm. And the better you get that through your head, the better off you will be. Even this Ball thing – there's nothing behind it. It'll be a performance, just like working with Javier is a performance.

She wished she believed herself.

"Chess!" she heard John calling after her, and she waited for him to catch up with her, loping across the campus green. It was still early, around ten in the morning, so while people would be waking up, most would still be groggy, still rolling out of bed.

She looked up at him, and he had a furrow between his dark eyes, concerned. _Are you really okay with this?_ He asked, mind to mind. _I mean – I'm worried about you._

_I thought you liked Aldon_, Francesca replied mildly, leading the way back into Oliver Hall and heading upstairs to Holmes Wing, to her room. She wasn't looking at him, so John couldn't reply mentally.

"I do, but…" John hesitated, then he sighed when they entered her room and flopped down on her bed. She poked him until he moved over, then curled up on the corner that he abandoned for her. Twin beds were really getting to be too small for the two of them, now.

"But what?"

He looked her in the eyes, opening their mental connection and letting thoughts, feelings cascade over her. He was worried for her – he was worried about this whole Unity Ball thing, though of course he would go. He wanted Gerry to come with him, and he and Gerry were both good with their wands, and he thought he could count on Hermione in a pinch, too. He was worried about Archie, and about her, neither of whom had strong duelling capabilities, and he didn't think Aldon could duel worth beans either. Tina, he would trust to Will and the Queenscoves, all of whom were known to be powerful and strong duellers, but if this went forward, he was worried about her and Aldon being separated from the rest of them, left vulnerable.

And Aldon. It wasn't that he disliked Aldon. Rather, he _understood _Aldon, which was perhaps better and worse at the same time. Aldon was the product of his upbringing – he had been raised as a noble, a _Dark_ noble, and he had been raised to accept, if not promote, pureblood supremacy. His views on women, on relationships, were antiquated, and by the ways that they would term things, John thought that Aldon was a political conservative. Aldon was also volatile, a volcano primed to erupt, as anyone would be after their dirty laundry was aired to their entire country on the front page of the national daily, as anyone would be after being disowned by his family.

John worried about her, and about her budding feelings for the man.

Francesca sighed, turning away to put her head in her arms, propped up on her knees. "It's not going to turn into anything, John," she muttered. "I'll do the Ball. It's not a big deal. We'll pretend for the night, and then it'll be back to business, to what we have now."

"And what do you have now, Chess?" John sat up, slinging one arm around her and pulling her closer to his shoulder. "The ACD, but you talk about more than that, with him."

"Not that much more." Francesca shrugged slightly, feeling the welcome weight of John's arm as she lied through her teeth. "Not as much as you'd think. Usually we spend an hour talking about the ACD, then maybe ten, fifteen minutes about other things."

John was silent, and Francesca wasn't sure if he believed her. Sometimes John would know better, but he wouldn't mention it. "I just worry about you, monster. I don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

"I understand," Francesca said, even if she privately thought it was a little too late, on that front. Still, John seemed to accept it, nodding and giving her a warm hug before he ran off to Quodpot. With him gone, she let out another deep, heavy, sigh, and pulled open the drawer to her desk, where she was keeping her latest project.

It wasn't anything, really, though she had started working on it soon after telling her parents that the ACD project needed her in Britain over the holidays, an in-person meeting to check their progress. It was just a tiny gift of appreciation for her closest partner on the ACD project in Britain, for the _friend_ who had brought her into his company and helped her push through some of the biggest ACD roadblocks she had over the past few months. It didn't have to reflect anything about her feelings, nothing at all.

She picked up her pair of pliers, examined the two Chinese runes that she was now attempting to replicate in silver wire, and started on her eighth attempt. She wasn't entirely sure if it could be done, making runes out of wire that could be charged like a paper charm, but if it worked, Aldon would have another, more useful, set of cufflinks, hiding both an attack and shield spell in plain sight.

XXX

Aldon stared into the jewellery shop window, at the delicate comb. It would look good against her dark hair, he thought, and he barely saw the price tag. The pearls, seven large white ones, lined the edge of the small, decorative comb, linked and held in place by silver wire. Pearls were the traditional Rosier gemstone, and there was some part of him that wanted to buy it for her because if she wore it, it would, in his old world, be a public symbol of his affection for her and of her acceptance of the same. He wasn't a Rosier anymore, but he still wanted it for her, just because it was beautiful.

He had enough for it, in the bank account Christie had helped him establish in the Muggle world, where his paycheque flowed in every other week. He didn't pay any living expenses, nor did Christie seem to expect him to, so his money largely just went and sat in the account, other than what he took out for takeaway, for coffees and teas from the corner coffee shop, and for Underground tokens. The comb would be a lot – not a whole month of pay from Blake & Associates, probably two weeks of pay, and he had to buy the tickets for Ministry Unity Ball, too.

Francesca had said she didn't mind going to the Ball with him, when they talked about it later. He had apologized for having to use her as a shield, but she had waved it off, saying that it would be worth it for Archie and for his cause, and besides, she liked dancing. It would be just like her dance competitions, a performance for them both. She would work on the choreography, and they would practice together every day when she returned to Britain. It would be fine, and she had always been curious about a high society gala event anyhow.

He could afford the comb. And he could call it a thank you gift, for coming to the Ball with him, and it would look good in her hair. She didn't need to know how much it had cost. He could simply wave his hand, tell her that it was nothing, he had just seen it in a shop and thought she would like it, and maybe she would give him that bright, beaming smile, the one that lit up her whole face. And if she did, then two weeks of pay was nothing.

He went in and bought it. And then, because he had bought the comb for Francesca, he thought that he would need something for everyone else, too, just to make sure that it didn't look out of place. Archie was easy – he poked around in a Muggle bookstore, found something that looked vaguely interesting in the _science fiction_ section. Hermione, too, was easy – for her, he slipped into Diagon Alley one evening, wearing a hat and a scarf to hide his face, and bought her a copy of _Etiquette for All Occasions_. It was a dangerous risk, but the look on Hermione's face when she opened it would no doubt be worth it, especially when she read his planned, moderately rude note in the cover. Since he was there already, he picked up two books on defensive magic, for John and Queenscove, before slipping back out to the Muggle world for scarves for Christie and, with a note of hesitation, for the Lord Black. Surely the man deserved _something_ for his silence.

It was the first year he hadn't bought anything for Ed or Alice, and the first he had bought something for someone that wasn't Ed or Alice.

Times had changed.

XXX

Her whiteboard was getting crowded, Lina thought, toying with her marker as she examined it. There were too many players, and she didn't understand nearly as much as she wanted about most of them. She had been out of Wizarding Britain, out of the centres of power, for too long.

There was Lord Riddle and the SOW Party, along with the Ministry of Magic. She had them labelled, in the top left corner of her whiteboard, two closely intertwined political bodies that had, in some form or another, controlled the entirety of Wizarding Britain for the last forty years. In some countries, that would be seen as tantamount to a one-party state, even if not a malevolent one. The SOW Party was something she understood, having been in it for many years. They were straightforward: they were for pureblood supremacy, anti-discrimination on the basis of magical affinity, among other things. Of all the players, she understood them the most.

Standing opposite Lord Riddle and SOW Party was Lord Dumbledore and the Light faction. Technically, their only link was that they were largely Light and largely pro-blood-equality, and not even all the later. There were many Light purebloods part of the SOW Party for their stance on pureblood supremacy, which many in the Light faction conveniently _forgot_ when they disparaged the SOW Party. Lord Dumbledore was elderly, but still strong, and he had carried his faction, usually between thirty and forty percent of the Wizengamot, through rough seas. For every measure that Lord Riddle passed, there were three that Lord Dumbledore had quietly stymied, and the two groups had held the Wizengamot at loggerheads for decades.

But now, there were at least two other players on the board.

The first was a terrorist. Lina didn't know where he had come from, but there was a new Dark Lord on the field, and Lina tended not to care about the how or the why. The how and the why was for the historians to work out, not for Lina, who was usually (if paid well enough, if her personal duties didn't force her to act) most interested in figuring out how to end the threat. In this case, that was becoming a little more complicated – whoever this new Dark Lord was, he had _followers_, and that meant the list of people she had to kill got longer and more difficult. Lord Riddle, in this respect at least, was a fool – his cover-up of the ongoing war was just making it harder for himself and anyone else to deal with the threat later. If Riddle couldn't deal with it quickly, within the next six months, then Lina's professional opinion was that they would be at open war.

She sighed, frustrated, and turned to the last corner of the board, to the newest player who had just risen to the battlefield. It was just a paper – just a weekly paper, free for everyone, which didn't have a lick of magic on its pages. But _Bridge_ was _interesting_, easily the most interesting of the players, though she doubted many in Wizarding Britain understood its importance. Too many people inside the country didn't understand the bubbling cauldron of resentment the whole system rested on. The only reason it hadn't boiled over was because each minor group – the Lower Alleys, the Scottish clans, the Irish and the Welsh, the shifter alliance, the dozen or so Guilds – had no reason or desire to work together. Until a certain paper appeared, throwing the bomb of _widespread emancipation_ on the nation.

It wasn't that no one had ever had these ideas before. People had had these ideas; other countries had been founded on them. Analysts had been writing papers, theses, dissertations comparing other political systems with Wizarding Britain's open oligarchy for decades. But it was _Bridge _that popularized the idea, _Bridge _that broke through the wall of silence surrounding the people of Wizarding Britain from the international community, _Bridge _that openly called attention to the fact that, with widespread emancipation, each of these disparate groups would have a _voice_.

_Bridge_ was a catalyst, and Lina even thought she could see the shadows of some of the people behind it.

Underneath the word _Bridge_ on her whiteboard, she had written first _Arcturus Rigel Black_. Black was the first interview, and with the newly-minted Lord Queenscove, a fellow teammate on the Triwizard Tournament and schoolmate from the American Institute of Magic, as the next cover story, the paper clearly had its roots in American-trained witches and wizards. It was probably being funded by the British International Association, that powerful lobby group stretching around the world. Black was involved, somehow, and with him the connections he had developed abroad.

But there were other fingerprints. Some of the analysis of British Wizengamot events, a few turns of phrase here and there reflected another voice – a truly _British_ voice. That person could only be glimpsed around the margins of some articles, and Lina thought he had to be a high-level editor in the paper. His voice, here and there, reflected a sound understanding of Wizarding British politics, but, more importantly, of _Dark_ Wizarding British politics. He was noble, or he had been raised so, and he likely hadn't been far from the seats of power.

Lina wrote _Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier _on her whiteboard.

There were more voices, as she followed the paper. There was at least one correspondent writing directly from Hogwarts, as well as someone who was legally trained or close to the legal profession in Wizarding Britain. These, too, were British voices – _Bridge_ had connected with at least one of the other groups, one of the non-noble groups less than satisfied with the current state of events. Lina would have thought the Welsh first, since Aldon had befriended Diggory in the Triwizard Tournament and Diggory had clearly used traditional magic, but from what she knew, the Welsh were small and fractured, rare. She didn't think they had the organization or manpower to manage a correspondent from Hogwarts or one from the courts. She also ruled out the Lower Alleys – their children, their people, largely could not prove their blood-status sufficiently to attend Hogwarts, thereby precluding them from entering the legal profession. She considered for a moment the Irish; the Irish were _organized, _but given the not infrequent rebellions, few Irish were given the privilege of attending Hogwarts, blood-status or not – only the ones, Lina thought, that had betrayed their people, thereby proving their loyalty to the Ministry of Magic.

The tattoos along her back crawled, and she shifted in discomfort. Lina _hated _traitors. Better to die than betray your countrymen, especially with the well-worn path between Ireland and Ilvermorny in America. Hogwarts was not so great as to be worth sacrificing the lives of your own people.

That left only two groups, and both, Lina thought, were strong possibilities for a connection, and she wrote them both down. The Scottish Clans were organized, they virtually always had clan kin at Hogwarts, and of course the Lady Ross was permanently stationed there as a teacher. As for the shifter alliance, one could always count on the Abbotts either having one of their own at the school, or one of their close allies. Damn rabbits were bloody everywhere. One or the other, if not both, had connected to _Bridge._

Lina had a soft spot for the paper. She didn't like to think that she had soft spots generally, but how could she not? It was courageous, it was pushing for the kind of change that Lina thought was long overdue in her native land, and of course her personal connection to at least one of the probable players didn't help.

Wars were not always a bad thing. As much as wars could be awful, terrible in their effect, wars were also an opportunity. Lina Avery had been born on a battlefield, and war felt more natural to her than anything else. War was where Lina made her mark.

_Bridge _would never have made it so far if a terrorist hadn't been making people scared, making people question, and this was the kind of chance that had not existed in Wizarding Britain for many generations. A war could permanently break the loggerheads in the Wizengamot, a war could make the smaller voices heard. If there was any time for action, that time was coming.

She reached over and picked up a purple invitation, lying on her desk. It hadn't been addressed to her – these kinds of things never were. When she married, Lina Avery had ceased to be, and everything went to her husband, as little as she saw him. She preferred it that way – she preferred to be left alone with her business in France as much as humanly possible. He, similarly, had always preferred to be left alone in the company of his Muggleborn mistress.

She glanced over the invitation, thought she had read it over enough to remember what it said. _Cordially invited, _et cetera, et cetera. _Unity Ball hosted by the Ministry of Magic, in a demonstration of the unity of Wizarding Britain. All proceeds to be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies._

With the invitation was a note from her husband, ordering her to present herself to Wizarding Britain to attend with him. She snorted, folding it and tossing it in the closest wastebasket. As if he had any real authority over her – whatever the law said, Lina was her own person, and he knew that very well.

But the tattoos on her back itched, the promises she had made long ago prodded at the little that remained of her conscience. _Duty_, they echoed to her. She had made her vows, so back to Wizarding Britain it would be.

She stood up from where she had been leaning on her desk, more graceful than anyone would have thought a woman of her size could ever be, reaching for a piece of parchment. Newman would have to cover for her and run the firm through December, as soon as he could return from Hogwarts, then in January they would need to meet and discuss. Lina would soon be needed on a more permanent basis in Britain, she thought, and if Newman wanted to return to Hogwarts, they would need to shift the day-to-day responsibility for the firm to someone else.

That night, in her tiny, bare apartment in Toulouse, she sent a rude note back to her husband and started packing her bag.

XXX

_AN: This chapter represents the first edition of "wow, kit hates writing teleconferences." Teleconferences are boring, everyone. If you ever find yourself writing a teleconference scene, stop. meek says long phone calls in fiction are only for phone sex, which... well, from Aldon's perspective, maybe his calls with Francesca are basically phone sex. *big shrugs* Also, this continues my "romance? What is romance?" saga. Thank you to meek_bookworm as always for the beta-reading and fact-checking, and to the various subject matter experts! Please let me know your thoughts, I love reading all your comments and reviews! Next chapter is in a week, because I could not resist posting a Midwinter Ball scene in the middle of winter break. _

_Next Chapter: I will give you everything if you would only have me / Tomorrow we will sweat and toil, / Our hands will quiver caked with soil, / Tomorrow we'll give it one last chance / But tonight we dance. (But Tonight We Dance, by Rise Against)._


	11. Chapter 11

The albatross stared at Archie, cocking its head at him curiously. Archie stared back, tilting his head the other way, wondering how on earth the gigantic bird had managed to squeeze through his window. He supposed if the bird pinned its wings to its sides, it could _just_ fit, but it looked so improbable. Or maybe, all birds were somehow magical – owls certainly didn't seem to have any trouble getting wherever they needed to go, so why would any other bird? In any case, Archie was _continually_ impressed by Harry's ability to convince birds to carry messages for her across the sea. Based on the bird species that he had seen, he thought she had been in South America, then the Galapagos Islands, and now she was probably somewhere in the South Pacific.

He grinned. At least he knew what to give her for Christmas, if she was somewhere in the South Pacific. Michener's _Tales of the South Pacific, _on which the musical _South Pacific_ had been based, would be perfect! His own copy had unfortunately been lost in in the Ministry raid, but there was a bookstore in town, and it was Friday. He would swing through the bookstore tomorrow before this bird took off – they always needed to rest a day or so before flying back anyway.

The albatross squawked, leaning over to knock the package on Archie's desk, and Archie's face lit up. Presents, already?

He reached over and ripped open the package. It was from Harry, of course it was, and inside was a little leather case and two other small boxes, wrapped in plain brown canvas, with a folded letter on top. Archie grinned – the other letters he had gotten from her this term had been more in the form of short notes, the tiny finches she had sent being far too small to carry anything big. They were at least easy to feed, but didn't albatrosses eat seafood?

He shrugged, opening her letter. She always told him what they needed to carry a message back to her.

_Archie_, she had written. _I'm glad to hear that things have been going well for you…_

She wouldn't be able to come home for Christmas, unfortunately, and she was worried about the little news that she had been hearing coming out of Britain. Her sources weren't tied to noble wizarding society, so she would really appreciate it if Archie could carry some news to her about her friends, especially Draco and Pansy. She missed them. She had included presents for him, Sirius and Remus with her letter, and while she knew her parents and Addy weren't in Britain, she wanted him to pass on her love to them if he could. Her time abroad was still going well, she felt more at peace than she had in many years – she felt like, for the first time in years, she could breathe. She had never realized how much the last four years had dragged on her – at the time, she had been so caught up in coping, in simply dealing with things and moving forward, that she had never been able to just sit and breathe and process everything that had happened. She was sorry that it had had such a huge effect on Archie, sorry for everything that had happened, and she hoped they'd be able to talk in person soon. She loved him.

Archie shook his head with a wry smile, folding the letter and packing it away. He had no regrets about anything. Even the loss of his gift was fair price to pay, he thought, for the gains they had made in the trial, and of course he loved AIM, too.

He didn't need to feed the albatross – apparently, he only needed to tell it a story, something it hadn't heard before, and give it a day's rest before it would fly back to her. He shrugged and told it a story about a girl named Lyra, her daemon Pan, and the armoured bears of Svalbard, put together a package for Harry, and sent it on its way.

A week later, he was back in Britain, strolling into the Lower Alleys. John and Chess had arrived in Britain on a Muggle flight a few days after he returned, Chess handing Dad a gift of chocolates in embarrassment for allowing them to stay and Dad waving it off. They had even met with Aldon, looking sharp if somewhat stressed. Aldon told them all in further detail about his meeting with Cedric Diggory, one of the Welsh wizards, and with Quinn Cameron from the clans. Apparently a fifth clan had joined with them, but Cameron had reported that the Clanmeet was deadlocked – five non-noble clans standing against the three noble clans.

Archie felt like he needed to do something too, something a little more active than sitting back and writing reviews of No-Maj movies and books. What he was doing was important, and he had no doubt on that front, but if, as Aldon thought, the Ministry was already at war with a homegrown terrorist who called himself Lord Voldemort (he had found the name going back over Lestrange's letter to Harry), then he felt like he had to try more. Or, at least, go and warn some of Harry's other friends, and see if they might be interested in helping too. If nothing else, they _should_ be warned.

Harry knew the Lower Alleys like the back of her hand, but Harry wasn't here and Hermione was visiting her grandparents. Archie was sort of hoping that someone would be kind enough to point him in the right direction, to an inn and pub called The Dancing Phoenix. He had purposely dressed down to go into the Alleys, picking out a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt with a big pocket in the front, in which he tucked his wand and his wallet and his hands. Sweatshirts were the epitome of comfort.

He wandered in, past Knockturn Alley. Things had changed – not so much in Diagon Alley, but in Knockturn Alley, the Serpent's Storeroom was boarded up and closed, along with a few other shops. Borgin and Burkes was still there, but everything felt different than before. People watched him, cautious, some of them crossing the street to get away from him, and no one seemed willing to make eye contact with him.

Maybe the No-Maj clothes had been a bad idea. He stood out in No-Maj clothes just as much as he had stood out in upper-class wizarding robes, too new and too elegant for his surroundings. Had he wanted to be inconspicuous, he really ought to have borrowed some of Harry's tunics and breeches, but none of them fit him anymore.

He turned off on an alleyway that he thought he remembered Harry taking, heading deeper in the Alleys. He thought he saw a familiar looking building, but he couldn't be sure – everything looked the same, and he had only been there once. He hadn't paid attention the last time he had been here, too shocked as he was by the ramshackle nature of the buildings around him, the dirt and god-only-knew what else running in rivulets between the cobblestones, and the _smell_, something like sewage and spoiled food that had been left out too long.

That hadn't changed, and Archie took another turn in the Alleys. He didn't see many people out and about, and the few he did see scampered out of his way the moment he came into view. He tried to call after someone, asking for directions to the Dancing Phoenix, but the woman only shook her head mutely and crossed the street to avoid him.

Well, he had to find someone to give him directions eventually, he thought, steeling himself for a long afternoon. He was here for a reason, and he wouldn't leave until he had accomplished his mission. Like James Bond, though James Bond probably would have had more success than he had had so far. James Bond would have looked cooler as he did it, too.

"Hello there, sir. Would you care to buy a flower?"

Archie turned around, hearing the voice. The speaker was a tiny girl, maybe ten years old, carrying a basket of flowers – not fancy flowers, not roses or orchids or lilies or anything, more like wildflowers. Archie thought he spotted peonies, chrysanthemums, daisies. She wore an impish smile on her face as she hopped down from the step she had been occupying, coming up to him and holding her basket out for his perusal. He returned the smile easily.

"I'll buy a whole bouquet, if you'll give me directions to the Dancing Phoenix," he replied, pulling out his wallet. "I don't know flowers very well, but can you make me a bouquet for me to give to my girlfriend? I want something that says how much I love her, but I don't want to be clichéd about it. Roses are so overdone, don't you think?"

The girl giggled. "Oh, absolutely. Anybody can buy his girlfriend a bouquet of roses, but it takes someone like me to build a bouquet with real meaning! I'll hold you to that promise, and I'll walk you over to the Dancing Phoenix. His Majesty sent me to fetch you, you know. We were getting reports of a bumbling Muggle wandering through the Lower Alleys."

"Thank you," Archie replied, sighing in somewhat unexpected relief. "I really appreciate it. My name is Archie – Archie Black. What's yours?"

"Archie Black, the cousin to Harry Potter," the girl sang back at him with another cheeky smile, motioning with one hand the direction they should go. "I know. My name is Margo, I knew Harry well – His Majesty used to pay me to track her when she came into the Alleys."

Archie laughed, not entirely sure whether he should have found that information comforting or creepy. He followed Margo, who really looked too small to be wandering around by herself, let alone selling flowers and being paid to track people, deeper into the Alleys.

The streets became cleaner, the smell of sewage disappeared as Margo led him into a nicer area of the Alleys, past a few bubbling fountains. He started recognizing a few more things as they went, or he thought he did, until they reached large, clean-looking inn and pub. The sign over the door was new, graven: The Dancing Phoenix.

"Here we are!" Margo said, gesturing for Archie to go in ahead of her. Archie pushed the door inwards, into a familiar looking room lined with long, burnished wooden harvest tables. It was quiet, unexpected for such a large room, but he supposed it hadn't been busy the last time he was there, either. He held the door politely open for the little girl who trailed him in and pointed him towards one table at the other end of the room. He recognized Leo Hurst, sitting with his head tilted towards a redhead he also recognized – Rispah Cooper, the Queen of the Ladies of the Rogue.

Archie took a deep breath, settling himself into what he called the _very best version of himself_. He was a representative of sorts, wasn't he? Best foot forward, and all.

He strode over to the head table, which was very clearly what Leo's table was, even with no other markers. Archie couldn't help studying him for a moment – how did he do it? He was leaning back in his seat, relaxed even as he listened to Rispah's talk, but Archie caught the way that his eyes roved around the room, his reaction to the slight noise from the direction of the kitchens. This man was perpetually alert, ready for action. He had known from the moment that Archie had walked in the room that he was there.

This was a different Leo Hurst than the one Harry saw usually, Archie thought. Leo, with Harry, exuded confidence, but he was also light, gentle, _fun. _This Leo was all seriousness, and the smiles occasionally flitting across his face didn't reach his hazel eyes.

Archie stopped a polite distance from the head table and swept the man a bow. Dad could have hold him exactly how many degrees it was, and someone like Aldon would have overanalyzed the gesture and told him exactly how much respect or disrespect he was showing, but Archie thought that, as a representative for a group of people that fought for equality, he wouldn't make distinctions that didn't matter outside of pureblood society anyway. As far as he was concerned, it was a straightforward bow between equals, one that he would have given to anyone.

"Well, well," he heard a woman's amused croon. "Look at the lordling's manners. He has them."

"Rispah." Leo's voice was a warning, before he glanced at Archie and nodded his head towards the empty seat across from him. "Black – not Rigel, but Arcturus. What brings you here?"

"Please, Archie is fine," Archie said with a quick smile, accepting the invitation gracefully. "I thought I would come and give you a warning, Your Majesty, and I'm sure Harry also would like an update about you, the next time I have a chance to write her."

Leo laughed, leaning forwards in his seat with an amused look on his face. "It's a kind thought, but I have my own ways of reaching out to Harry. A warning, you say?"

Rispah held up a hand, graceful and languid, calling over one of the wait staff. The boy was young, probably a few years younger than Archie himself, but he came over within a few seconds. "Ale, or a glass of milk?"

Her voice had a bit of a bite to it, but Archie stared unflinchingly up at her. "Ale will be fine, Lady Cooper."

"Three ales, then, Philip."

Truth be told, he liked milk better, but he wouldn't admit _that_ here. Philip nodded, polite, and disappeared for the kitchens. Leo looked at him, nodding at him to go on.

Archie didn't beat around the bush. "Wizarding Britain is at war, Your Majesty, Lady Cooper."

"We know," Leo replied, leaning back with a small smile. "I read the analysis in _Bridge _– the conclusion seems inevitable, especially with the Ministry's increased raids in my territory. And how does your war affect us, Heir Black?"

Archie accepted the use of his formal title with no reaction – he supposed that, since he was calling Leo _Your Majesty_, he could hardly blame the man for referring to him by title. He hadn't entirely prepared this answer, because he had assumed that war was war – how it affected people should be obvious. "Wars have a way of making governments tighten their grip on everyone they can, and they don't care who they harm in the process. You've said yourself, there are more Ministry raids in the Lower Alleys."

Leo shrugged, nonchalant, exchanging a glance with Rispah, who shook her head. "If it wasn't their war, it would be something else. The Ministry likes to pretend they matter down here. For us, this war is just one in a long series of power struggles. You understand, Heir Black: for the most part, we don't have access to many of the things that you take for granted, and we never have. Who is in control of the Ministry makes little difference to us, whether it be Lord Riddle, Lord Dumbledore, or anyone else. None of those Lords will put food on our tables, clothes on our backs, ale in our bellies. Our children don't school at Hogwarts – blood restrictions or not, there's just no money for tuition. We have little to gain by sticking our necks out, and a lot to lose. It's better for us to stay forgotten."

Archie didn't think that was true, but he wasn't sure how to respond. He didn't know life in the Alleys, and he didn't want to push it too hard. He frowned a little, reaching for the tankard of ale that Rispah had returned with, taking a drink and thinking through his next few lines. "It's a fault of our political system that who's in control of the Ministry has so little effect on you," he fumbled eventually. Harry would have been better at this, at saying things without saying things, and also, ale was disgusting. "It's my hope that, should we achieve widespread emancipation, you might have more of a voice."

Leo burst into laughter, his hazel eyes sparking in genuine amusement. "You really aren't your cousin, Heir Black, are you?"

Archie shrugged with a smile of his own tugging at his lips. "I never said I was. Look, I'm even drinking ale!" He lifted his tankard as an example.

"You don't even like ale." Leo smirked, and Rispah laughed, low and throaty, her eyes sparkling. "I saw the look on your face when you took your first sip. But it was a good attempt, and therefore, from one leader to another, I tell you that we decline. We'll take care of our own, but we have no extra resources to fight wars not of our own making. But you are welcome to stay and take your ease. And have no fear for your wallet, either – Margo will keep an eye on you while you're in the Alleys."

Archie nodded, genuinely relieved and appreciative of the gesture. He didn't think he could get out of the Alleys without Margo's help anyway, and it really could have gone far worse. Leo could have been offended, and he wasn't, so he hadn't lost anything by asking. He relaxed. "If you ever need anything, you can always reach out to me at Grimmauld Place, too. If I can help, I will, no strings attached, Leo."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, Archie," Leo replied, then something else caught his attention. Archie glanced around, spotting Marek Swiftknife coming through the doors, a stern expression on his face. Leo sighed, exchanging a look with Rispah, the smile disappearing from both of their faces as they stood up. "Sorry, but we need to go take care of business. Margo will look after you."

"Thanks for the chat, Leo, Rispah," Archie said, nodding agreeably as Margo joined him at the table, picking out flowers for Archie's bouquet. He ate lunch there, paying probably too much silver for the meal and the bouquet both, but he didn't mind.

XXX

Aldon fell. Again.

Francesca was perfectly steady, standing on a tiny square of hardened air, only a few feet above him, watching. Aldon cursed silently as she motioned for him to get up and try again. He swore he would master this faster if she wasn't teaching him, if anyone but her was teaching him. He would have preferred Archie. Or even John.

"But why us?" John had asked, frowning, when Aldon had dared to ask. "Monster is the one who is actually good at magical dance. The two of us, we just know the basics."

"And she's planned your complete choreography, so really, you need to learn it from her," Archie had chimed in with a bit of a grin. "She needs to work with you to see your progress, and to adjust her choreography if you don't master some of the techniques in time."

"Though, she hasn't made the lead role very hard," John had added, his frown clearing in favour of a teasing smile of his own. Aldon had glared at him, convinced it had to be a lie, even if his core wasn't ringing. He had seen the routine – Francesca had made John run through it once with her, before even getting him started on the air hardening spell.

The routine she had developed was stunning. She had written a choreography matching the story that Aldon was trying to tell, basing it off an old wizarding legend, the Dark Lord who fell for the Light Lady. It was set to the timing of an English waltz, and she slowly drew John into the air, letting him find his feet. She did have a technically difficult routine, because the lead, as the Dark Lord, tried to reject her three times, sending her into a solo pass each time so wrenchingly compelling that he couldn't help but try to follow her, gravitating almost against his will after her.

"It's as much acting as it actual dancing," Archie had said, watching beside him with a thoughtful look on his face. "See the expression John is wearing? That conflict? You've got to master that, too. Except better, because John is pants at acting."

Somehow, Aldon didn't think that would be difficult. _Repressed desire, _the feeling of falling for someone he shouldn't, that was a feeling to which he was quickly becoming all too accustomed. Letting it show on his face instead of hiding it, that should be no problem at all.

The routine, over the course of only three minutes, brought the Dark Lord into the Light Lady's orbit, took him against his own better judgement to her side. The central minute was pure love story: the lovers danced in perfect harmony, very traditional except for a few embellishments that Aldon thought he would be able to master easily, two spins where he held her by the hand, and a dip. The final minute was conflict, again – illusion magic standing in for the world, tearing them apart, and their seeking to be together despite it. There was a final throw, and from Aldon's perspective, it was the most difficult section for _him_ because it was when he had to move, and move fast. Francesca, as the Light Lady, could _tumble_ – he had to get down to the ground using something she called the _modified stairwell descent_, a controlled fall that didn't _look_ like a fall, to catch her at the end of the tumble-pass.

"Pretty basic," John had panted, when they had finished. "Monster has planned to manage all the illusion magic, too, so you just need to work out the air-hardening spell and a few technical moves, really."

_Basic_, Aldon couldn't help thinking, with a small scowl as he picked himself up. He had been at it for three days, and he was still on mastering and maintaining the air-hardening spell. He either lost focus, and the spell, as soon as he started looking to the next steps, or he stumbled when he first tried to move, and fell. The air hardening rune only created blocks of eight inches square for him to balance on, and he had never realized that eight inches square was so small.

"You, um. You need to _concentrate,_" Francesca said gently, coming closer to him. She stepped down towards him, as if she were on a set of stairs, hovering effortlessly a foot off the ground, and touched him briefly, hesitantly, on his stomach. "And fix your posture – keep your core tight, and you'll fall less. Your physical core, I mean, not your magical one."

She was different in person, he thought. Or maybe he was different. Being _there_ was different – in person, Aldon could see the way that her dark eyes shone when she was pleased, even if that was rarely reflected in her lips. He could smell the light strawberry scent wafting off her hair, he could feel her soft sighs as she watched his frankly disastrous attempts to get into the air and stay there without falling to the ground.

They didn't talk – not the way they did on communication orb, not the way they had for months on end. She was someone who knew some of Aldon's deepest secrets, but there was never any hint of it when they were face to face. She said little, speaking only enough to give him instructions, to guide him in the air-hardening spell. It had gotten to the point where sometimes, he would get home and look at his pretty green orb, and he would think about calling her, finding out what was wrong, but he never did. It felt silly, when she was right there in Britain with him, when he met with her in person every single day. Maybe he needed to meet with her alone, but he pushed that thought away – meeting her alone was a thousand times more improper than merely talking to her, late at night, when she was an ocean away.

She didn't smile at him. Indeed, she barely looked at him. Even when they danced, feet solidly on the ground, just an opportunity for her to see his skills without magic involved, she kept her eyes fixed firmly downwards, glancing at his shirt instead of his face as he guided her through a very traditional waltz. Her hand in his was warm, trembling a little, though she danced better than any pureblood noble girl of Aldon's acquaintance. With two-inch heels, she was the perfect height for him. He swallowed – the waltz felt too close, too intimate, when she was the one in his arms.

And he had to do it all in the air. He had to throw her, and catch her, and everything in between each of the technically difficult jigsaw pieces that formed the elegant, glorious picture painted at the end. And he _wanted_ that picture – Francesca Lam was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and she was brilliant and sensitive and sweet and a little obsessive about her ACD and frighteningly anxious about so many things, and the choreography she had planned was _perfect _because _she was perfect_ in all her imperfections and he wanted it. He wanted the story he was trying to sell, he desperately wanted the fairy tale he was drawing in the air to be _true_.

But it wasn't true, he told himself, every time he pulled himself upright from another fall to the floor, every time he stepped smoothly into the air, slowly understanding the technique needed to balance and hold the spell. It wasn't true, he reminded himself, every time he touched her delicate hands, her tiny waist in the coolly impersonal touch of the waltz. It wasn't true, it was too good to ever be true, and it was probably better for her, he thought, if it wasn't true. Who was Aldon Blake? Aldon Blake was no one at all.

He wasn't the only one preparing. Hermione, too, was learning how to dance, since Archie had to take her out on the floor at least once over the night – a skill that, apparently, the harpy had never learned. She was, if anything, more frustrated with her lessons than Aldon, and she didn't even need to learn any magic. She took frequent breaks, one of which Archie had used _serenade _her, which was quite probably the most disturbingly overt demonstration of love Aldon had ever seen in his life. It was utterly horrific, but on the bright side, Hermione had nearly died of embarrassment. Even Francesca had giggled at the scene, her dark eyes shining in amusement.

Neal Queenscove was excited – apparently his entire family, as well as a few of his cousins, his best friend, Keladry Mindelan, and his girlfriend, Yukimi Daiomaru, would be coming. His house-elves, pleased both with a happy Lord and excited over their first year with someone in residence, had gone overboard with decorations. A massive tree looped with gold and silver dominated his great hall, long strings of baubles lined his hallways, and soft, warm fires lit in any room where anyone might spend any time. There were even never-melting icicles on his battlements.

Aldon had been at Queenscove walking Neal and his mother through Wizarding British formal event etiquette, when the Floo, passworded twice over, spat out Neal's father, Baird Queenscove, and two of his siblings.

"Baird!" Neal's mother had been on her feet immediately, an indescribable wave of emotion coming across her face as she ran towards the fireplace, leaping the last few feet towards her husband. Baird Queenscove, almost a full head taller than her, caught her easily and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"Mei!" Neal's father had a kind voice, a tenor that rang through the great hall. "Oh, Mei. I missed you."

"And I, you," Neal's mother replied, her voice thick with emotion. Aldon blinked – in the past few months of knowing her, he had only seen Mei Ling Song as a powerful, somewhat domineering mother, and he would never have expected a woman who would throw herself on her husband. He thought she might even be sniffling a little against Baird's shirt collar.

"It's easy to forget, when you interact with her, that Mama _did_ run away from home to be with Papa," Neal murmured dryly in Aldon's ear. He nodded at someone that Aldon thought had to be his elder brother, and his younger sister. "Graeme, Jessa, _bienvenue! Laissez vos bagages ici_, the house-elves will handle them, and if you head upstairs, I'm sure the castle will lead you to your rooms."

"The _castle_." Graeme Queenscove repeated, in a tone of mixed horror and fascination. He had Neal's exact shade of brown hair and green eyes, though he was built stocky rather than lean. "The _castle_ will lead us to our rooms."

"_Comme c'est beau_," Jessa Queenscove murmured, barely above a whisper, staring around the great hall in wonder. She was her mother in miniature, save for her green eyes – those had to be a Queenscove trait, Aldon guessed. "_Tiens_, it even has _you_ on a tapestry, Neal!"

"Not me," Neal winced, a little sheepishly. "It has to be one of our ancestors, _c'était ici quand je suis arrivé_. And yes, the castle itself can show you your rooms – it's a bit of a sentient castle, see?"

"Sure, an _ancestor._" Graeme snorted, shaking his head, seemingly impressed and aghast all at once. "I cannot believe that this is your life, little bro. Do you have lists?"

"I do have lists, and they are amazing," Neal replied with a grin, waving a hand towards the doors in the direction of his training grounds. "The castle even keeps it clear for me, no need to shovel."

"_Tabernak." _Graeme whistled under his breath, impressed.

"_Et toi_, Neal, you are going out to those lists with me, _now,_" a new voice rang out, from the direction of the stairs. Aldon turned around, spotting someone who had to be Neal's other brother – dark hair or not, the green eyes, currently sparking in annoyance, didn't lie. Neither did the sword in his fist, already out and spitting sparks. William Queenscove, second eldest, future politician, currently a political analyst with the Canadian delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards. Aldon caught a light hint of French dusting his words – he must have gone to one of the French or bilingual schools. "Why do Tina and I have _separate_ bedrooms?"

Neal shrugged, turning to face his other brother, keeping his own sword tucked in non-being. "The castle insisted. I think it thinks that since you aren't _married_, it would be improper for you two to share a bedroom."

William glared at his younger brother, pointing at him with his sword. "But you're the Lord, aren't you? _Fix it._"

"I can't," Neal replied, entirely honest even if he was smirking. He leaned back against the table where Aldon had been talking him through the typical schedule for any formal event, crossing his arms across his chest. "I really can't. The castle is surprisingly intractable on this point."

"Babe, it's _fine_." A woman who could only be the mysterious Tina appeared at William's shoulder, a laugh on her face. Aldon blinked again, taken aback – she looked so much like John, with the same thick eyebrows and prominent nose, that he suddenly had the very strong impression that this had to be Tina _Kowalski_, John's elder sister. "We can live with separate bedrooms for two weeks. _C'est juste deux semaines_ – Neal, the rooms are fine. It's fine, _tout est _okay. Will, come on, let's get back to unpacking."

"_C'est pas _okay, Tina," Will snapped at her, green eyes flashing. "If it was just the rooms, that would be one thing, but the stupid castle won't even let us _close the door_ for some privacy! We've shared a room for more than _three years_, if you count our seventh year at Collège, and I don't _want_ to have separate rooms. We aren't children, we are _common law spouses_, and I would like to be treated as such!"

Aldon almost blushed, looking away, embarrassed for John's sister even if she had cracked up, her loud laughter now filling the room as Neal's other family members chuckled. He could guess what must have transpired – they had wanted to close the door of one of their bedrooms to engage in certain _other_ activities, only to find that the castle itself, quite properly, had stymied them because they were unmarried. And now William was quite upset about this and was airing it to all and sundry in the great hall. Did no one else see any problem with this? Where was Tina's father? Where was John, even, to look out for her reputation?

"Common law spouses are not _spouses_," Neal said, deadpan, though his eyes were crinkled in amusement. "You aren't _married_, Will. _C'est pas la même chose_."

"It should be the same thing," Will groused, flicking his sword towards Neal in a motion of readiness. "This is _discrimination_, Neal. I want it _fixed_."

"If you want to be technical, Will, we aren't even common law yet – the legal definition is _three _years of cohabitation, and they aren't going to be counting boarding school in that," Tina added, straightening from where she had been doubled over in laughter, wiping her eyes quickly. She still had a bright smile on her face, and her brown eyes were dancing in mischief. "We have another six months to go before we even hit _common law_ status. And I'm pretty sure that only applies in Canada, not in Switzerland."

Will turned around, glaring at her too, though Aldon saw that his sword was lowered when he faced her. "_Et tu, _Tina? Whose side are you on, anyway?"

She shrugged. "I just think you're making a big deal out of nothing. It's _two weeks_, Will. _Deux semaines_. And we'll be back in our apartment in Geneva and can sleep however we want to sleep there."

"_Two weeks_ is too many weeks," Will muttered, turning back towards Neal. "_Maman et Papa_ are fine with us sharing a room. Tina's parents are fine with us sharing a room. And meanwhile, my own little brother—"

Well, that answered Aldon's questions about where Tina's family was in all of this. They, apparently, were happy and willing participants in this whole disgraceful state of affairs, and Aldon was flummoxed. He felt like he should be defending the castle, as strange as it sounded, but he had no idea what to say. Of course, William and Tina could not and should not share a room without being married, but he didn't know how to explain _why _to these people. It was improper – it was just improper, and it damaged her reputation, but he could already imagine the strange look that Neal and his family would give him if he said so.

"So, propose." Neal rolled his eyes, though from the expression on his face, Aldon didn't think that he actually expected anything of the like to happen. "Get yourself a ring and propose. Not that hard, Will."

William flushed, and Aldon couldn't help but frown a little.

"We're – we're _waiting_, Neal, I explained that," William stammered, his ears red. "Because we're too young, and everyone says that young marriages never work out, and a few years of cohabitation never hurt anyone. We can wait until our careers settle a bit, and – and you're _still_ coming with me into the lists, because this is still _somehow_ your fault."

Neal sighed, dramatic, plucking his sword out of non-being. "If you insist. I'll thrash you, Will, and you know it."

"I think I will take that as my cue to leave," Aldon said, shuffling his papers into a stack on the table. Neal and his family could read over his notes at their own leisure, and he was deeply uncomfortable with the attitude of general humour and complete nonchalance that the whole Queenscove family had over this scene. Marriage, he thought, was _important_. "I'm concerned that your lack of propriety might be contagious."

Unfortunately, more impropriety was inevitable, because he had accepted an invitation to Grimmauld Place for Christmas. Or rather, Aldon had declined, until he remembered that being there would let him see Francesca's reaction to his gift, and he _did_ want to see that. And then, Archie had spotted the split second of weakness and pounced, making such a fuss that Aldon had eventually just given in. He had pulled that _look_, again, the one that Harriett used to use at Hogwarts when she wanted something, though he had adapted it with age to be less childish and more _disappointed_.

On Christmas Day, he had breakfast with his mother, a full spread with bacon, eggs, sausages and toast that he knew Christie had worked hard to cook. Aldon only picked out a few eggshells from his eggs, and he didn't have the heart to tell her that he hated having greasy foods for breakfast and would have been perfectly happy with those wonderful cheese croissants she was always picking up from the fancy bakery down the street. Instead, he told her it was delicious, ignoring the discomfort both in his stomach and his magical core as he did so.

She smiled at him, a little sadly, and Aldon knew that, ungifted she might be, she had seen right through him. "You don't have to lie, you know. I just – I thought it would be nice, a home-cooked meal on Christmas Day. And breakfast is easier to make than dinner."

Aldon sighed, an awkward breath. "You really don't have to force yourself," he muttered, reaching for his mug of coffee, the best thing on the spread. "It's enough that you give me a place to stay. I really – I think you have this impression that at Rosier Place, I had home-cooked family meals all the time, but that was Ummi and the house-elves. Takeaway is fine, the bakery around the corner is fine."

There was a moment of silence, before Christie spoke, more wistful than anything else. "I wanted to, though. Because it's something I never got to do for you growing up."

Aldon coughed, looking away, not sure how to respond. His attention caught on the wrapped gifts under the tree. There were more than he had expected – at Rosier Place, Aldon's tree had been in his private parlour, heavily decorated with a dozen meaningless gifts under it. New robes from his mother, who seemed to have settled on a standard gift early on and _always_ gave him new robes. Books about Quidditch that he only skimmed, or Quidditch paraphernalia he would never use. Once, a broom, a Firebolt, that he never flew. A wizarding chess set that was more useful as a hiding place for his contraband than anything else. Christie's tree was tiny, the decorations askew, but there was still something about it infinitely warmer than his tree at Rosier Place had been.

"Er." Aldon cleared his throat, getting up to fetch one gift from under the tree. It was poorly wrapped, the corners a little floppy, since he had never wrapped anything by himself before. "I bought you a gift."

Christie laughed a little, reaching for it, and Aldon noticed the care she took to unfold every one of his clumsy corners. It was a simple scarf, made of a fine wool, patterned in a soft sort of plaid that he thought she would like. Her brown eyes lit up.

"Burberry," she said, running one finger over the soft fabric. "You shouldn't have, Aldon."

Aldon only cleared his throat again, looking away. It was just a scarf, and admittedly he hadn't thought much before buying it. And he had to get her _something_, he felt, for turning her life on its head. "It's, er, nothing."

She smiled again, more brightly this time, and fetched a gift of her own out from under the tree. "Here, Aldon," she said, offering it to him. "My gift."

It was a book – it was obviously a book, even before Aldon opened it, which he did with almost the care that Christie herself had used in opening his gift, he knew. That wasn't natural to him, typically at home he would have left his presents unopened for several days, then quickly rip into them when he was packing to return to Hogwarts, just to see if there was anything worth taking along with him. There usually wasn't.

It was a treatise on magical theory, a classic, generalist text that Aldon had heard about but never managed to obtain. It was banned in Wizarding Britain, not merely censored, not merely something he had to special order through Flourish and Blotts and then sign a waiver to accept. She had to have had it shipped months ago. It was thoughtful, and useful, and tailored precisely to _him,_ a better present than he had ever received from his parents.

"Thank you," he said, meaning it, but Christie only smiled, gesturing down at his new book.

"Open it," she said, her voice carrying a hint of mischief.

Aldon raised an eyebrow, then flipped open the front cover. There was a folded sheet of paper on the inside. _VOUCHER_, it said in huge letters, and Aldon unfolded it to read the words, _REDEEMABLE_ _FOR_ _ONE_ _MASTERY_ _PROGRAM_.

"It's – well, your father said that you had always planned on doing a mastery after finishing at Hogwarts. Obviously, over the summer, things took a turn, but I wanted you to know that you can still go." Christie looked down, twisting her fingers in her lap. "You would still need to apply for and get into a program, but I mean – you could take a leave from work. I can cover the cost of a two-year Mastery program anywhere you like, and it's – it's—"

"It's safer abroad," Aldon finished for her, folding the slip of paper and tucking it back in the book. Wizarding Britain was becoming more dangerous – that much was obvious, between the Marriage Law, Lord Voldemort, and his own activities. Aldon was right in the middle of it, and he was even fairly certain Christie _knew_ that. But the thought was kind. "I – I will use this one day, even if it's not next year, or even the year after. Thank you."

That wasn't his only gift. The moment he arrived at Grimmauld Place, a few minutes late because he had helped Christie greet her guests at her own catered party, Archie dragged him into the sitting room. The Blacks had a tree, done in blue and gold, though Aldon was surprised to see that there were no presents under it. Instead, there were several piles of presents throughout the room; Aldon understood only when Archie pushed him towards one of the piles, a small one of only a few gifts. His own, unless he missed his guess – with a few more than he had expected, if truth be told.

"You're the last one here!" Archie said, his grey eyes bright with excitement and, Aldon guessed, either too little sleep or too much coffee. Possibly both. "Come on, we couldn't start without you, and I've been waiting _all morning _to open presents!"

Aldon raised an eyebrow but didn't reply, instead simply handing Archie his own stack of gifts for everyone. Scanning the room, he saw that the Lord Black was looking indulgent, happy, though there was a worn sort of worry to him as well. Lupin was sitting on the sofa beside him, with Archie and Hermione both on the floor. John had taken the only armchair, with Francesca perched on the arm.

There were no seats left for him, but Aldon, whether it was as a Rosier or as a Blake, did not sit on floors. He could go to the kitchen and fetch a chair, or better yet, just summon one, but something about that option seemed too conspicuous and possibly a little rude. Then again, it was rude not to provide him with a chair or other seating arrangement, so he debated with himself internally for a moment before he spotted the unused footstool in front of the armchair. He considered the round, cushioned object.

"Come _on_, Aldon," Archie insisted, reaching already for his first present in a stack somewhat larger than Aldon's. "Sit down! It's presents time!"

Aldon ignored him. The footstool would suffice, he decided, and fetched it to bring to his small pile, settling in for what he expected would be a trying day of watching Archie and his friends open presents. He hadn't _really_ expected anyone to get him any gifts – he had always given something small to Ed and Alice, his only friends in the past, and they had usually reciprocated with small items as well, but he did not know what etiquette was governing here. Truth be told, he still wasn't entirely sure that Archie or his friends followed any etiquette whatsoever, nor was he sure what to think of many of them.

Archie himself was overwhelmingly excitable and enthusiastic, for all that he had a serious side, while his girlfriend Hermione simply didn't bear thinking about. John was openly friendly, and four months ago, Aldon would have cautiously called him a good acquaintance, perhaps even the beginnings of a friend, but something had changed. There was a certain coolness to John's words to him now, and Aldon would sometimes catch the large boy studying him, a considering frown on his face, when he thought that Aldon wasn't watching. He had checked his mental shields, multiple times, but he didn't think that they were being disturbed. Then again, he didn't know – even with the textbooks that John had sent him from America, Aldon would not trust his skills as an Occlumens against a Natural Legilimens.

But there was also Francesca, and whatever her friends were like, she was there, and Aldon without a shred of uncertainty _did_ like her. She sat, balanced on the arm of the chair closest to the fire, her ankles crossed and her legs swinging a little towards the flames. A small smile graced her face as she watched her friends open their presents.

Archie's pile of gifts, larger than the others, was almost surprising – aside from Aldon's contribution of a science fiction novel, there were piles of Muggle classic novels, play tickets from Hermione to something in the West End, a Potions-based, experimental emergency Healing kit from Harriett, and advanced Healing and Potions texts from his other family members. There was little by way of pranking items or Quidditch gear, as Aldon might have expected for such a boisterous teenager. Indeed, it seemed as if most of those had gone to John instead, who got new Quodpot gear for his annual attempt to get onto the AIM Quodpot team, new Beater gloves and a box of Marauder pranking items among a mix of books and CDs.

Hermione's expression, opening Aldon's gift after a series of other books, was absolutely priceless. There was a moment of surprise that Aldon had even gotten her a gift, then a flash of shock and offense as she opened it.

"_Etiquette for All Occasions,_" she read, a suspicious look crawling over her face as she flipped open the front cover. "I might consider _taking a few lessons_ before the Ball?"

"It would seem to be in your best interests." Aldon smirked, waiting for the inevitable fury, but to his surprise the girl only smirked in reply.

"Well, now I don't feel bad at all," she commented, shooting Archie a satisfied look. "I _told_ you Aldon would never get me a present, and if he did it would be somehow a joke."

Aldon glared at her suspiciously, but it was only a few minutes later that he was forced to unwrap his own presents. He dug through his pile, deeming it best to simply get Hermione's present over with, and found hers with ease. He unwrapped it with a sense of caution – for all he knew, the harpy had rigged it to blow up in his face.

Instead, he pulled out a book.

"_On the Vindication of the Rights of Women,_" he read, frowning, a scowl coming across his face. "Mary Wollstonecraft. Hermione, I am _perfectly_ _respectful_ of women!"

"In a fifteenth-century sort of sense, maybe," she retorted, her arms crossed over her chest. "That will bring you to, hmm, late seventeenth century. We can go from there."

He was also distinctly unimpressed with his present from Archie and the Lord Black, a very Muggle-looking leather motorcycle jacket. He pulled it out, heavy in its packaging, not even bothering to hide his expression of distaste. The leather was a shiny black, slick to the touch, and marked with a dozen zippers hiding tiny pockets that were too small to ever be useful for anything. The _only_ good thing he could say about it was that it looked small, and maybe it wouldn't fit him.

"Put it on, put it on!" Archie grinned, his grey eyes lit with eager anticipation.

Aldon grimaced. "It doesn't look like it'll fit," he said, his voice carrying a hint of hope.

"It'll fit," Archie replied confidently. "Try it on! I bet you'll look great."

Aldon glared at him, not finding any way to refuse – or rather, he could refuse, but he somehow had the suspicion that his refusal would go nowhere, and he would shortly find himself putting on the ridiculous jacket anyway. He picked it up, a little gingerly, and slid one arm into one long sleeve.

It was quilted on the inside, surprisingly warm and comfortable, and with something like dread he slipped his other arm into the other sleeve and pulled it on properly, zipping it up. The main zipper was asymmetrical, ending under almost under his ear. It fit; he shouldn't have doubted Archie, not when the boy had taken his shopping for his Muggle wardrobe, so _of course_ it fit. He looked around for a mirror, and the Lord Black conjured one quickly in the air.

It didn't just fit, it fit well. He looked different, a little wild, a little dangerous – he looked like someone who did not care about propriety. He was fairly certain that he hated it, or, at least, that he should hate it. He ran his fingers through his hair, self-conscious.

"I like it," Francesca announced, looking him over with an odd look on her face. Half surprise, half something else that was hard to read. "I think it looks good."

"It looks _great_," Archie corrected, beaming. "Fits like a glove!"

Aldon scowled at him but couldn't find it within himself to say anything as he pulled the jacket off and folded it neatly in his lap. It did fit well. And it was warm. And he supposed he did need a better winter coat, given how much it rained in London in the winter. His coat that he had bought was good enough for a light rain, but anything too heavy still soaked through and he hadn't gotten around to putting an Impermeable Charm on it.

There was one final, tiny box at the bottom of his pile – it had been on the top of his stack, but he had set it aside in his search for Hermione's prank gift. It was well-wrapped, each fold pristine, and he couldn't help but be careful unwrapping it. He had opened his gifts from everyone else, and no one could miss the giant, handwritten, tag on top, Francesca's slanted, messy cursive reading _To Aldon, From Francesca_. There was a black box beneath the shiny, iridescent packaging, and he pulled it open.

It was a set of cufflinks, nestled in dark blue tissue paper. He picked them out, examining them – woven silver runes, in the Chinese system, on a silver back and covered in a hard, shiny, clear plastic.

"They're, um, the runes for a sword and shield," Francesca said, her voice small. "Um, I experimented a little – if you wind three small wires together, and coat with resin, it holds the spell. It, um, decays kind of fast, in only about a day instead of the usual, um, week, but I couldn't, um, do any further experiments because I was running out of time…"

Her voice trailed off and she looked away, her cheeks red, and Aldon coughed, clearing this throat. "Thank you, Francesca," he said, looking at her even if she was staring at the fire as if it were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. "Even this, I am sure, was an achievement. I appreciate it."

He watched her open her pile of gifts with rather more attention that he had paid to Archie, or John, or anyone else. To something like relief, he wasn't the only one to give her jewellery – Archie, the Lord Black and Remus Lupin had combined on a pair of dangling earrings with a matching necklace. He watched as she unwrapped a thick sweater from Hermione, which Archie had probably picked out, then a traditional tea ceremony set from John and his family, one that Francesca had apparently been eyeing for a while and which she opened with no surprises. When it came to his own present, Aldon couldn't help but flush a little – his box stood out, wrapped in red, the sticky tape somehow a little messy even when he tried to use magic to make everything even. There was a spell for wrapping things, but he had never learned it.

She was worse than his mother, carefully unfolding each corner of the box, tongue trapped between her teeth as she tried not to rip the paper. Archie hadn't done that – he had simply ripped into his gifts eagerly, tossing the paper away on the floor to be cleaned later, or into the crackling fire. Francesca unwrapped each object carefully, then she folded the paper into a neat square and set it aside. Aldon wasn't sure what she intended to do with all the paper.

She pried the lid off the box, and Aldon stared at her face, breath held discreetly for her reaction. The comb was perfect for her, gold and pearls shining in the firelight, and she picked it up, rotating it in her fingers. Her mouth was opened in shock, her expression awed as she reached up and slid it into her hair.

"It's – um, it's beautiful, Aldon," she said, her dark eyes wide. She wasn't smiling, but the expression on her face – surprise, gratitude, something else that Aldon couldn't quite read – was _better _than a smile. She had smiled at her other gifts, giggling and thanking the person who gave it with grace, but only Aldon's had given her this expression. "I – I don't know what to say. Thank you."

Aldon ignored the speculative look that Archie and the Lord Black were now fixing him with, as well as Hermione's slight frown and John's open scowl. "It's nothing," he said instead, even if it was nothing of the like.

She wore his gift, shining in her hair, the entire night.

XXX

Pansy stared down at the sheaf of parchment. She didn't need to read it – she had read it maybe four times over by now, looking something, _anything_ objectionable. The closest she could get were the terms for the Parkinson Wizengamot seat, in which she would be permitted to sit (as if she needed anyone's permission) and which her second_-_born child would inherit (if she was able to bear a second child). The terms were good, better than anything she had received previously, better than anything she could expect from a noble Heir. She would have preferred to marry a second son, or a non-noble to elevate into the nobility, but second sons were even rarer in her generation than previous, and her father had refused to countenance a non-noble son-in-law. It was hypocritical in the extreme, Pansy considered, because her father himself had been elevated into the nobility.

He would tell her, though, that he had still come from a noble, Book of Silver family. He was only just distant enough from the main line not to be considered noble himself, from one of the numerous lesser Avery branches. Pansy gritted her teeth for a moment – if it were not for her father's intransigence on this point, her options would be much broader. But her husband had to be a _noble_, and her father's reaction when she had, more out of desperation than genuine hope, pitched _Aldon Blake-formerly-Rosier_ as an option, had put paid to that idea. Aldon was not noble, and nobility was non-negotiable.

Admittedly, Aldon was a poor example, but she hadn't been able to think of anyone better. Scandalous or not, Aldon has been raised noble and he was the bastard son of Lord Rosier, still in line for the seat. She wrote him regularly, but his brief, friendly replies never mentioned where he might be, and he always used her owl to respond.

She was past sixteen. Good noble girls had secured arrangements by now. She was, or she had always tried to appear to be, a good noble girl. She might enjoy toying with people, her personality might flex from day to day on her whims, but she knew her duty to House Parkinson. She had to marry, and she had to bear children (at least two, if she wanted the Parkinson seat to remain alive), and the Malfoys had given her a _good offer_.

She stood up, glancing at the gleaming Parkinson crest hanging over the mantle of her fireplace. She would go outside, take a walk in the brisk winter air. Maybe there would be unicorns, or other creatures crossing over the Parkinson grounds, and they could help her clear her head. It was hard to be upset when a unicorn was nudging its nose under her hand for more pats, and they didn't reply or judge her when she whispered to them the things she could say to no one else. Even of there weren't unicorns, she could go to the stables, talk to the two Abraxans they kept, and that her mother loved.

She pulled on her boots in the entryway, solid brown leather boots that were perhaps a little larger and clunkier than anyone might expect her to wear, still mulling over the Malfoy offer. She liked Draco. Not as a lover, but Draco was easily her best friend. He could be short-sighted, and he was perhaps a little fixed in his beliefs, but he was also kind and he had the capacity for change. He was far better than anyone else she had received an offer from, and she shuddered at the thought of any of her other offers touching her like that. Draco, she could tolerate, but she was not her mother, deeply in love with her father though she thought he cared just as much for the Parkinson title, wealth, and name as he did for her. Were Rose Parkinson not the Heir Parkinson, now the Lady Parkinson, Pansy had sometimes wondered whether her father would have ever looked at her mother.

The air outside was cold on her face, the wind whipping her blonde hair into disarray. She pushed her hair out of her face, twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck and fixing it with a quick Stability Charm. The ground was hard, not completely frozen, and the thin layer of snow was dirty, mixed with the mud underneath. Her boots were spelled to keep out the wet and shuck off the muck, so she didn't worry about the state of the grounds as she strode off to the nearest copse of trees.

Draco didn't deserve someone who would merely _tolerate _him. That sort of thinking was discouraged, in her world, but she couldn't help the thought anyway. Love marriages were the province of rebels, of the wild noble girls who shirked their duty and ran off with wholly inappropriate men, and Pansy was not one of them. But Draco was kind, and he would try to love whomever his parents married him to, and he would be faithful, and he deserved someone who loved him romantically and not only as a friend. She wanted better than that for him, for her best friend.

It was an irony, she thought. Until now, until she stood on the brink of having to make a decision, she had wanted to get married. She had wanted a husband, she had wanted children – and she still wanted a husband and children, one day. She was capable of romantic love, she sighed over just as many romances as the other girls at school, if less overtly so, and she was even sexually attracted to men and women both. She was attracted to Harry Potter, both in her guise as Rigel Black and as herself, and she had to admit that Ronald Weasley was developing into a fine specimen of a man. But, nobility aside, her parents would never consider a _Weasley_, so she hadn't even tried – even though Ronald Weasley was the only one who would face her on a duelling ground and treat her as an _equal_. Yes, she still beat him, but unlike literally all the other boys, he at least _tried _against her.

Why did she have to make this decision _now?_ She was sixteen. She wanted other things from her life – she was doing brilliantly in Arithmancy and a Mastery Program was sounding more and more interesting by day. She wanted to see the world a little, travel to more places than just France where she was sequestered in small rooms meeting potential marriage partners. She wanted to travel to Wizarding China, Russia, the Americas, Japan, see the things that _she_ wanted to see instead of being led around on a carefully prepared tour. She wanted to sit in her _own_ Wizengamot seat, because it was _hers_, she wanted to be a political player on her own instead of standing on the sidelines and allowing her husband to do it for her.

At least the last one was addressed by the Malfoy offer, which is what made it _better_ than all her other offers. Why was it that, on marriage, women simply ceased to exist as entities in and of themselves? She wanted, one day, to be a wife and a mother, but she was still _her_, wasn't she? Pansy Parkinson, wife and mother, was still the same person as Pansy Parkinson, who liked creatures and duelling and manipulating people and events to her own desires, wasn't she?

She kicked at the ground a little, stamping clear a small circle of snow in front of a fallen tree trunk, long one of her favourite spots to sit and reflect on her life. She brushed the snow off, drying the old wood with a modified, intense, Heating Charm, so the water would rise as steam into the cold, frozen air. She sat down heavily, setting her elbows on her knees and resting her chin in her hands.

She knew the answer to these questions. A noble wife was expected to set her own desires and her own ambitions aside to support her husband and raise her children. Noble women who had their own careers shirked their duties to their families, and even if it was becoming more common as a result of economic circumstance, it was not ideal. It was scandalous for a noblewoman to take orders from a social inferior, or worse, from any customer who walked in off the street. And Mastery programs – thirty years ago, those would have been fine, but now the timing was all wrong. The new theories were that if Pansy spaced her children out enough, having one at seventeen or eighteen and another ten years later, her second child would be less susceptible to the Fade. Conceivably, Pansy could have her first child at eighteen and then complete her mastery, but Draco was her only suitor likely to even consider the possibility, and his parents certainly would not. Realistically, Pansy's options were to get married directly after Hogwarts and forgoing her Mastery or completing her Mastery and risking her eligibility for marriage, and her concomitant opportunity for children at all.

There were other things she could do. She could leave the country, or marry a non-British wizard, a pureblood from France or elsewhere on the Continent who would likely be more open to waiting for children or to her obtaining a Mastery later. She had investigated those options at length, but the problem was that of the possibilities she had met, the ones of whom her father had approved, they had all required that Pansy leave Britain and reside on the Continent at least for part of the year.

She looked up, through the openings in the trees, through which she could just see her childhood home. Parkinson Palace was made of gleaming white stone, with graceful columns holding up the roof, built with wide, open courtyards and spaces made to bring in the outside. The windows were huge, and nearly every one had a comfortable, cushioned window seat. Numerous skylights that brought in even more sun. Her home was built to work with the nature around it, appropriate for an Estate that doubled as a magical creature sanctuary.

From where she sat, in the woods close to her home, she could hear the slap of the waves on the shoreline and smell the brine of the sea. Parkinson Palace was on the coast, on a small inlet that housed a merpeople colony, several rare species of salamanders, and one of Wizarding Britain's only remaining habitats of flying seahorses. She heard a small peep, and she turned to see a Golden Snidget whip by her, one of the very rare birds that had almost been hunted to extinction for Quidditch games before the Golden Snitch was invented. She barely saw the small bird before he disappeared, back into some bushes on the other side.

She would have to bring out some treats for him later, she thought, a small, sad smile coming across her face. It was winter, and the Snidgets couldn't find much by way of food in the cold forests of her home. They were so endangered, and she had to look out for them, where she could.

There was a whicker behind her, and she turned around to see a unicorn, picking its way through the snow towards her. A male, seventeen hands tall, and his bright horn gleamed in the light. She smiled, reaching out to beckon him closer. The Parkinsons had always had a unicorn herd on their estates, though with the risk of poachers, she rarely mentioned them other than to the closest of her friends. This unicorn was named Voronwë, and he had been born on the Estate some ten years ago. Pansy had practically grown up with him, and he came closer to her, nuzzling into her hair.

"I know," she murmured to him, scratching his nose. "Yes, I'm upset. I don't want to leave you, see?"

He didn't understand, but he nosed at her anyway, trying to comfort her.

Pansy was British. British-born, and British-raised, and she was a Parkinson. She loved her glorious, beautiful home, and she loved the magical creatures that the Parkinsons had protected on their estate for generations. It was hard enough to leave it all for Hogwarts, so how could she leave it for a marriage abroad? If she married Draco, she might not be able to _live_ at Parkinson Palace, but she would be close enough to check on her beloved creatures often, several times a week. Perhaps she would even be able to convince Draco to live at Parkinson Palace much of the time, an option that wouldn't be available for her if she went abroad. Pansy couldn't leave her home, her creatures, and she would do everything in her power to protect and preserve her home and her estate for the creatures that lived there.

And she did want to get married one day. She did want to have children. She did not want to be a leftover, undesirable because of her age and education, and she was running out of time to reply to her offers.

The Malfoys were making a very large concession by allowing Pansy to sit in the Parkinson seat rather than forcing her to give her proxy to Draco. They made a second huge concession by stating that Pansy's second-born child would be the Parkinson Heir, and a third by letting her choose to keep her own name. She was unlikely to get a better offer from anyone else. The Lord Malfoy had been extremely generous in trying to secure her hand in an attempt to distract Draco from Harry.

She didn't have a choice. For all her scheming and allies and nearly perfect grades, if she wanted to remain here, in Britain, in Society, if she wanted to protect her _home_, she didn't have a choice. There was only one right answer for her House.

She took a long, deep breath of cold air, feeling it freeze her from the inside out, one last breath of something almost like freedom. She patted Voronwë on the nose, promising him that she would be out later with a few cubes of sugar for him and the herd.

Then she went inside and told her father that she would accept the Malfoy offer.

XXX

Francesca stared at the mirror, considering her face and hair. Her hair was too short, now – it hadn't grown out enough for her to curl it into the big, loose waves she liked for formal events. She would have to leave it straight tonight, even if she thought the hint of movement made her prettier.

Maybe that was best, she thought, reaching for her box of makeup. It was a larger box than her usual travel set, since she had expected a formal event. Aldon wanted to tell a fantastical fairy tale about falling in love, and Francesca had to be the right person for him to fixate on. She had to be beautiful, but she also had to be _naturally _beautiful, because she had to be the kind of beautiful that would draw someone like _Aldon Blake_: Truth-Speaker, Justice's Chosen, someone who could see through lies, illusions, and, probably, makeup charms. Anything obviously fake would be unbelievable, so she reached for the neutral colours.

Francesca was pretty. She worked hard at being pretty, but she wasn't pretty enough for _this_. Aldon wanted Helen of Troy on his arm tonight, and Francesca was not Helen of Troy. The whole concept of going to the Ball was terrifying, and she was going to be stared at and judged by hundreds of strange, unfriendly Wizarding British elite, and she _hated _it. She wondered if she would even be able to balance Aldon's sharp good looks.

Because Aldon Blake _was_ handsome. There it was, writ stark, and she reached for the false eyelashes and glue. He was shorter than most, probably only five foot seven on a good day, but he was built slender and elegant. And he could _dance_ – better than Archie, better than John, better than anyone she had met who wasn't competing against her in America. He had picked up the air-hardening rune within a week, then the other choreography, including the modified stairwell descent, in only a few days.

When she dared to think about it, Aldon Blake was _scarily_ handsome. She wasn't sure how she had never noticed over the summer, or how she had managed to forget how sharply good-looking he was, but she had come back to Britain, and there it had been, staring her right in the face. Aldon Blake and his honey-gold eyes, sharp, pointed nose and small mouth, lithe dancer's body and trim waist.

And he knew her secrets. He knew about her hopes and dreams, her deepest thoughts and fears and worries, because she had _told him, _and he knew more of her than anyone other than John. Maybe he even knew her more than John, whom she loved dearly but for whom she would always remain, on some level, a helpless eleven-year-old girl who needed someone to look after her.

Aldon Blake was frighteningly handsome, and he knew all her secrets. And somehow, she still had managed to teach him how to dance. And now she had to touch him, they had to move together in the intimate embrace of a waltz, her nose just inches away from his shoulder, breathing in his heady scent of cedar and spice, trying to ignore how he made her head spin, in _public_. She never felt like this when she danced with anyone else, all fluttering nerves and electric anxiety, and she could barely look at him. Not without thinking about a hundred conversations they had had about a hundred different things, all of them irrelevant to the ACD, and she would never have told him _any_ of it if she had remembered how handsome he was. It was embarrassing. She was embarrassing.

She hadn't even spoken to him properly since she had arrived in Britain, and bizarrely she _missed _him. There was a wall between them, a thin wall between the Aldon Blake whom she talked to on comm orb and the one in front of her in real life, and even if they were the same, they didn't feel the same at all. In her room sometimes, late at night, she toyed around with her comm orb, rolling it around in her palms, thinking about calling him. But she never did, because she would only see him tomorrow in real life, and what did it say about her, that she preferred the faceless communication of the comm orb over the real thing?

"All ready there, Monster?" John asked, and Francesca could tell from her mental link and his voice both that he was standing in the doorway.

"Getting there," Francesca replied, finishing with her face. Her face was not one that would launch a thousand ships, but this was about as close to it as she could get – even skin, long eyelashes that made her eyes bigger and more luminous, a pale pink lipstick. All in neutral colours so that, in theory, the Wizarding British elite would think that it was _natural_. She pulled half of her hair back, pinning it in a simple knot with bobby pins and fixing it with the stunning, elegant comb that Aldon had given her for Christmas. It matched well with the cream-coloured, velvet long-sleeved dress she had picked for the evening, which shone with a discreet glimmer-spell. It was a No-Maj dress, since Aldon, too, would be in No-Maj dress. She still looked like herself, and her stomach hurt. "How do I look?"

"Good enough to make a thousand people rethink their prejudices." His tone was diffident, and Francesca shot him a look. He was frowning, his thoughts a low buzz of worry. He didn't really want Francesca to attend – it would be dangerous, and he didn't know what Aldon's duelling or combat skills were. He suspected the man had none, which was _not_ promising, and on top of that there was a strong echo of _disapproval_ of Aldon, the reason for which Francesca hadn't worked out. It had become more prominent since they had come back to Britain, but he kept the reasons for it hidden under his surface layer of thoughts, and Francesca didn't pry.

_I have my paper-charms, John_, she said, mind-to-mind. They were tucked under a bra strap, six combat spells and four shields of varying strength, all of them pre-charged. A lightning spell, two fire spells, a poison spell strong enough to drop a man, and two general blasting spells. They would take nearly no magic at all to activate, and one advantage of having a small magical core was that at least she recovered faster than most. _I'm prepared. And I have my lightning, and I'll use it this time, I swear._

_I still don't like it_, John replied, his mental voice a growl. _What about your choreography? The illusions you're pulling will exhaust you, you'll be done other than those paper spells for at least an hour. Two hours._

_Less with food_. Francesca stood up, straightening her black tights so they sat more comfortably on her thighs, looking him over carefully. John had pulled out his best dress robes for the night, the insignia of a Natural Legilimens shining on his chest. He hated the symbol, Francesca knew – it reeked too much of a time where Natural Legilimens were forced to wear it, and the point of wearing it now was only intimidation. Being a Natural Legilimens was an intrinsic part of John, but he had never wanted people to fear him. But there it shone, bright, polished silver against his black, high-collared shirt. Coupled with his midnight blue robes falling just past his knees in the American formal style, his ACD and wand holster hidden under his sleeves, he looked dashing and ready for anything.

_Food should be good at least, it's a fancy schmancy event. _John smirked, catching Francesca's other thoughts. _Think Gerry will be impressed?_

_I think Gerry will be all over you. _Francesca rolled her eyes, giving herself one last look over in her mirror. She looked as good as she ever would. "Where is Gerry, anyway?"

"He booked a hotel room, not too far from here." John shrugged, and Francesca glanced at him, picking up a hopeful undercurrent to his thoughts. She didn't need to hear the explicit thought to know what he was hoping. _He should be coming by soon._

_I'll tell Sirius you aren't coming home tonight, then. _It wasn't something she would ever say aloud, but the advantage of her mind link was that John got a certain unfiltered version of her that no one else saw. John laughed, following her as she brushed past him and headed downstairs.

Her stomach was roiling, a mess of anxiety and nerves. She could ask Archie for a Calming Draught, but he had taken to asking her a bunch of questions she didn't really want to answer every time she asked, suggesting that she talk to a Mind Healer about her anxiety. Francesca didn't think she needed one, and she hated the lecture, so she had stopped asking so often. She debated internally about whether it would be worth suffering the lecture, decided it wasn't, and let it be. Archie was preoccupied staring at Hermione anyway, who had managed to order a set of periwinkle blue dress robes for the Ball from New York City, styled in the Wizarding British fashion. Her hair had been smoothed down, twisted into a chignon on the back of her head, the kind of pretty, elegant knot that Francesca's hair had always been too slick to put in without too much hairspray. Sirius and Remus were talking in one corner, their voices low, and Remus was flicking his wand repetitively as if he was running through a repertoire of spells he might need to call on.

Aldon was already there, staring into the fire with an expression of mild distaste, as if he was gearing himself up for a very unpleasant task. Francesca agreed, even if there was a plummeting flip flop sensation in her stomach. He looked good, too good, in a black satin waistcoat on black dress shirt and trousers. It should have looked bland, dull, but it didn't – the silky shine of his waistcoat brought it into sharp relief against his other clothes. She could see her cufflinks at his wrists, and the slight bulge over his left arm told her that he was carrying his ACD. His wand, she guessed, was tucked in an inner pocket of his waistcoat, and he had a ritual knife belted at his waist.

He looked over at her, golden eyes thoughtful, and a small frown appeared between his brows. He tilted his head for a moment, and Francesca panicked, her breath becoming short even as she tried to keep it natural. Did she not look beautiful enough? His whole story hinged on her, and even if she had been assured that he would handle any and all interactions with the rest of the Wizarding British elite, breaking a hundred etiquette rules along the way, she was nervous, scared, terrified. Maybe she should ask Archie for a Calming Draught, lecture or no.

"Are you all right, Francesca?" he asked, his voice steady and kind. "You look stunning, by the way."

"I – fine," she muttered, looking away. There was a pause. "I don't like the Floo."

That was a true statement, so Francesca couldn't be sure whether it had triggered his gift or not, and he didn't tell her. Instead, he offered her his arm.

"Come, then," he said, his frown clearing and an uncertain half-smile on his lips. "We can Floo together. It's only one night, and I'll be beside you the entire time."

"You better be." John took a step forward, aggressive, his voice unusually hard. He was already hand in hand with Gerry, who was looking formal in a military-style No-Maj jacket with a double row of buttons and a red armband on one arm. A not-so-subtle reminder of the Grindelwald Wars, Francesca thought, though she didn't know how many people in Britain would know that.

Gerry aside, John's expression was stern as he glared at Aldon. "Chess doesn't like crowds at the best of times, and we all know how the Wizarding British elite are going to see a Wandless, American newblood. Don't leave her alone, for anything – if an old friend invites you to talk privately, you find me, or Gerry, or the Queenscoves and leave her with us. If you need to go to the washroom, you find one of us, and you leave her with us. If you have to leave her for _any_ reason, you find one of us. If I find out that you left her alone, for any reason, and she gets hurts tonight, no one will find your body. Am I making myself clear?"

Aldon studied her best friend for a moment, even as Francesca looked at the ground, blushing in absolute shame. John was standing just outside of her kicking range, a fact that he had no doubt considered before he engaged in this wholly embarrassing, unnecessary and humiliating spectacle. She would have to remember to kick him later; she wasn't _helpless_, she had her paper spells and her lightning. She grasped onto Aldon's arm, which was warm and surprisingly solid.

"Crystal," Aldon was saying, his voice silk, almost a little mocking, then he sighed. "I'll take care of her, Kowalski. You have my word."

John glared at him, a stray thought coming across his mind, _but what is your word worth?_ But he didn't say it aloud, and instead turned back to Gerry, who gave Francesca a small, commiserating smile as he looped one arm around John's shoulders.

Flooing into the Ministry of Magic was something else. Francesca shut her eyes tightly against the hot, spinning sensation, and Aldon's arm, firm around her shoulder, didn't help in the least. Instead of just the fear of the fire and the intense, hurtling, roller-coaster sensation of flying, now she also had in mind his warm arm around her, the sense of being _too close_ to him, and she wanted to throw up.

The flames spat her out into a huge hallway lined with a half-dozen massive fireplaces, a Floo Central like Francesca had never seen. There was a long lineup of mages, dressed in their finest, a rush of energy filling the room with an excited hum. Francesca's grip on Aldon's arm tightened as he directed her to the end of the line. There were too many people, and it was too crowded, and her heart was beating too fast and she wanted to go _home. _Not just Grimmauld Place home, but _home_ home to San Francisco, or even New York City to John's kind grandparents who always had something delicious and filling on the table or to the lovely townhouse in Brooklyn where John's sister dressed her up while John duelled in the backyard with Will Queenscove. Didn't these people know that it would be dangerous here, tonight? Why were they so happy and excited?

"It's the first chance for a lot of these people to go to a formal event of this nature," Aldon said, leaning down a little to murmur in her ear. "The Galas in previous years were invitation-only, for the most exclusive of guest lists. And this replaces the usual SOW Party Gala, so that crowd is also here in force, tonight."

Francesca nodded, her mouth dry as sandpaper she stared at the floor. The tiles were stone, a dark slate grey, smooth but unpolished.

"Francesca." His voice was soft, but there was a pleading note in it which made her look up, into those entrancing golden eyes. He pulled her a little closer to him, slipping one arm around her shoulders. One would think, after dancing with him for almost two weeks, she would have gotten more used to this – his warmth, his cedar musk and spice smell. "I know this is odd and difficult, but please. We used to talk so often, and I don't know what's changed, but can we pretend it hasn't? Just for tonight – I'll take care of you, I swear it, so – so just try to have a little fun, at my expense?"

Francesca laughed, though it sounded a little weak to her ears. Her lips trembled as she tried for a smile. "Your – financial, or emotional expense?"

"Both," Aldon replied with a small smile of his own. "You _are_ witnessing my social suicide firsthand. You may as well enjoy it."

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. In this alternate, fictional universe, she was also the cause of his social suicide, but her alternate self didn't worry about that – maybe she was too naïve to worry about it, or maybe she considered herself well worth the price, or maybe she simply trusted Aldon enough to accept his choice. The real Francesca wasn't sure of any of those things, and couldn't help but feel awkward, targeted. Was she worth it? Was she worth _him_? A thousand of the Wizarding British elite wouldn't think so.

She was bad at this, bad at people. But Aldon had made his own decision, and it was easier that it was all fake. She didn't have to be naïve, failing to notice the inquiring looks already being tossed her way, or believe that she was worth the cost of his social suicide, or blindly trust that Aldon's decision was right. It _wasn't_ real, and for her, it could be simple: she had agreed to help, and he couldn't pull this off if she didn't play her part.

"You are," she said, then she paused, thinking her words over. "You are maybe the worst excuse for a bad boy that I've ever met."

"It is not my usual role, no," Aldon conceded agreeably, visibly relaxing as she spoke. His hold around her shoulders tightened a little, his golden eyes leaving hers only to look over her head, skimming the crowd. The Blacks were behind them, a few strangers separating them in the line, while John and Gerry had disappeared. Francesca focused on the _other_ sense tying her to John, and found him and Gerry across the room with his cousin Rolf and three generations of Scamanders. Even the elder Mr. Scamander, the noted Magizoologist, had come today, looking spry in a light-blue No-Maj coat over a tan waistcoat and dark, pinstriped trousers. His wife, American Auror Porpentina Goldstein Scamander, scanned the crowds, a red armband matching Gerry's on her arm.

"Newt Scamander," Aldon said, impressed, following her gaze. "He is very rarely seen in Society."

"He's nice." Francesca fidgeted a bit with the hem of her dress, which didn't fall as long as Wizarding British robes. Even with her black tights, she felt like she was flashing her ankles and shins to the world. "But there are too many creatures at his house. He and Rolf are probably hiding a few in their clothes now."

Aldon was startled into a laugh, his thin eyebrows twitching upwards. "And where, pray tell, in their clothes would they be hiding creatures?"

"Swooping Evils are small when they aren't attacking anyone. Cocoon-shaped." Francesca tilted her head, considering the Scamanders closely. "Rolf has a pet one, he brought it with him into the Triwizard Tournament. They could definitely fit a Swooping Evil under their clothes."

Aldon grimaced, an expression with which Francesca whole-heartedly agreed. Swooping Evils, in the wild, fed on _human brains_. Rolf claimed that he and his grandfather had developed an equally nutritious substitute, but the fact remained – the creatures were basically zombies. Or they were going to be the ultimate source of a zombie epidemic. She didn't know, she just knew that she wanted them _nowhere near her_.

They were at the front of the line before she knew it, with Aldon pulling out two parchment tickets from his waistcoat to give to the man. The man didn't seem to notice who Aldon was, or maybe he had just been bored into an unthinking stupor, because he didn't look at them, instead only looking at the tickets.

"Wands," he said, holding his hand out, and Francesca stiffened.

Aldon pulled put his wand, light brown and stiff, and handed it to the man with little ceremony. "My companion does not use a wand."

The man looked at them then, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He was bald, with age spots dotting his scalp, but the bags sagging under his eyes suggested that he was not as old as he looked, merely tired and overworked. "What do you mean, no wand?" he snapped, suddenly alert. "No Muggles allowed. I should be calling the Aurors."

"Do it," Aldon replied and leaning forward, putting one hand on the table, a sharp grin playing about his mouth. "I am _sure_ they would enjoy you wasting their time, Thompson. I didn't say she wasn't a witch, I just said she didn't use a wand."

"'_The__ wand makes the __wizard'_," Thompson quoted back at him, and Francesca scowled. It was a common enough saying, showing of the incredible power that _wands_ had over Wizarding society, and the exact sort of thinking that she wanted her ACD to obliterate. "If she has no wand, how can I tell that she's a witch?"

Aldon shrugged, straightening. "If you won't take my word, you could always ask her to _do magic_."

The man hesitated, then he fixed his attention on her, his expression alive with suspicion. "Do magic, then."

Francesca glanced at Aldon – she wanted to bite her lip, but that would ruin her lipstick, so she resisted. All she had on her were attack and defense spells. She could summon light or sparks or fog without a paper charm, but she didn't know if that would be enough. They weren't _subtle_, but at the same time, she wasn't sure that this man would believe that she had cast them. "Aldon…"

Aldon tapped her shoulder, where her paper spells were hidden. "Go on, sweetheart."

Francesca hesitated, then sighed. Aldon had wanted her to show off anyway. She pulled out her small stack of paper spells, paging through them to find her lightning – it was the one that would cost her the least to use, since her elemental magic was lightning anyway. She held it up, looked around for an empty line of sight, picked a spot on the ceiling and added the tiny drop of magic it took to finish the spell and release it.

Thunder cracked, following her lightning as it leapt through the air, striking the ceiling at the exact spot she had aimed. There was a breath of silence, all conversation gone, and the scent of ozone lay heavy. The spot on the ceiling was burned, smoking slightly, and Francesca slipped her spent paper charm back into her pile, then the whole set back under her bra strap. It was loud, it was messy, it was unrefined and violent – the way most elemental attack magic tended to be.

"Does that satisfy you?" Aldon asked, his voice ringing into the silence, full of hard amusement. "We've given you our tickets, she's shown you that she's a witch, now let us in."

The man was still staring at the smoking crack in the ceiling. He swallowed. "Er, yes, sir, Mr. Ros—"

"I go by Blake now, Thompson," Aldon finished for him, taking his wand back and ushering Francesca towards the cavernous room the man was guarding. She could see sparks of light, like stars, shimmering from a million sources – mirrors, glass, water. "Mr. _Blake,_ thank you."

Inside, the ballroom was dominated by a huge fountain. On one side, there was a massive golden wizard, his wand pointed proudly in the air, dressed in the ultra-conservative robes of the Wizarding British elite with an ornate pointed hat. On the other side of the fountain, a witch with long, braided hair stared up at him, hand-in-hand with a house-elf, adoring, while a goblin and a centaur stared on. The goblin's expression was awed, cowed, while the centaur was turned the other way, looking over his shoulder as if he was fleeing, his bow turned to the ground. Based on what John said about creature relations, especially with goblins and centaurs, Francesca didn't think it was realistic in the least.

"They expanded the space," Aldon murmured, looking around, releasing his arm from around her shoulders in favour of tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow instead. The room was crowded, with too many people, far more than would be at any AIM school dance. Francesca took a deep breath, trying to breathe, trying to focus.

"Should we…?" she asked, looking around for the dance floor. She would feel better if she was moving. She spotted it on the other side of the fountain, a beautiful, dark hardwood floor that had clearly only been laid down for the night, but no one was on it yet and she didn't hear any music.

"They won't start the dancing for another hour, at least – they have to make sure everyone arrives and gets in, even the people who can't possibly be considered fashionably late anymore." Aldon turned towards one corner of the room, taking a deep breath of his own, and Francesca tightened her grip on his elbow. He glanced down at her with a small smile. "Would you like to meet Ed? I've told you about him, so why don't we go meet him?"

"Um, if you want to," Francesca said, huddling a little closer to him. She didn't fit in, here – not just her clothes, which were entirely No-Maj, but her face, her skin colour, her accent, everything stood out. "I – I guess we have time."

Aldon studied her for a moment, then he reached up with one hand to brush a strand of her hair away from her face. It was a natural movement, one that made her catch her breath a little. "Trust me, Francesca. I won't leave you alone here, and whatever happens, I'll make sure you're safe."

Francesca went to bite her lip, but stopped herself at the last instant, again. People were staring at them. People were already staring at them, their eyes making Francesca's skin crawl, but Aldon was ignoring them all. She tried to reply, but her mouth was too dry, a small piping noise coming out instead, so instead she just nodded and let Aldon lead her to a cluster of people standing a little out of the way, in the corner.

They were all tall, in long, elegant robes, cotton and linen and silk. She felt so small, following Aldon as he nosed into the circle, a few regal nods at the people around him, who hesitated for only a fraction of a second before making room.

"Edmund, Alice," Aldon started, his voice purposely light, looking around the circle. "Ah, and Lucian, Adrian. It is a pleasure to see you all, after so long. If I may introduce my girlfriend, Francesca Lam? Francesca, my oldest friends, Edmund and Alesana Rookwood, the Heir and Heiress Selwyn, Lucian Bole and Adrian Pucey."

"I—" Francesca tried, but her voice failed her, so instead she simply dipped a trembling dancer's curtsey. It had worked well enough with Aldon, so maybe it would work here. She didn't know. Her heart was beating too fast.

"Girlfriend," one of the men repeated, his voice a low growl. He was broad-shouldered, his arm around his wife, so Francesca knew that he had to be _Ed_. "Interesting use of words, Aldon."

"Americanism," Aldon replied, looking down at Francesca with a soft smile, one that looked a little too real for their game of pretend. "Francesca is American, one of Archie's friends at the American Institute of Magic. I was fortunate enough to meet her over the summer, and, well, she prefers the terminology and I don't know what else to call her. I have not, regrettably, been able to meet her parents yet to formalize our arrangement, though I intend to post-haste."

Francesca could feel herself flushing as four mages in the circle looked down at her. The woman, who had jewel-like blue eyes heavily lined in kohl, was already glaring at her like she was someone beneath their collective notice, while Ed seemed more considering. The one that Aldon had called Lucian, a stocky, broad-shouldered blond, was expressionless, but Adrian, the sandy-haired shadow beside him, wore an open expression of horror. They were looking for a response from her, she realized belatedly – Aldon had thrown the bomb, so to speak, and they were looking for a reaction.

"It's – it's a little early for that, Aldon," she said, looking up at him in desperation. She had no idea what to say. "I – I'm only fifteen, and, um, my parents – they want me to go to college after I'm done at AIM. Study something useful, like, um. Engineering."

Aldon smiled, pulling her closer to him before looking up at the frightening people around them. "Francesca's parents are Muggles, so it is difficult to explain wizarding cultural norms to them," he explained, and Francesca could see the moment the second bomb hit, as Adrian's face turned from horror to disgust, and he took a step back. "We'll work on it."

"This is why you won't take advantage of the Marriage Law, then," Alice said, her voice sharp. "A – Muggleborn."

From the way she had caught herself, Francesca suspected that the first word hadn't been so favourable. Not that _Muggleborn_ was a favourable term in Wizarding America anyway – it permanently tied newbloods to their history, instead of embracing their magic, and the thinking was that it encouraged discrimination. Like using the word _handicapped_ instead of _person with a disability._

"New – newblood," she interrupted. She wasn't Hermione, but she didn't like the word _Muggleborn._ It was like _Wandless_, and it made her feel defective. How defective she felt changed by day, and some days were worse than others, but she didn't _like_ the feeling. "I – I prefer the term _newblood_. Just because, um, my magic is new, doesn't mean, um, that it's _lesser."_

Adrian opened his mouth to reply, but Aldon cut him off with a peal of laughter. A good thing, Francesca would guess, based on the expression on Adrian's face.

"And there's a mark on the ceiling in the Floo room proving the point, my darling," Aldon said, sliding one arm around her waist and tugging her closer to him. She swallowed. "That thunder earlier? That was my Francesca. Thompson insisted she prove she was a witch, so she threw lightning and torched two square feet of the ceiling."

"Never heard of a _Lumos_ charm?" Lucian asked, and Francesca was grateful to note that he seemed to be amused instead of horrified or disgusted.

"No such thing. Francesca uses paper charms," Aldon replied, with an easy half-shrug. "The magical creature her wand core needs to come from hasn't been seen in a thousand years, so she relies on runes and paper charms. Unless you know where we can find a kraken."

Francesca glared at Aldon. It wasn't a _secret_, but it was still something she only told a few people. But his golden eyes asked her to trust him, and she could feel his thumb stroking small circles in the small of her back. She swallowed and looked back at the circle of people he had once known, trying to figure out what she should say.

"I – I usually rely on runes for things like light spells," she said finally, no smile on her face. "They aren't difficult or magically intensive enough to make it worth a paper charm, but I was worried that the doorman wouldn't, um, accept it as being proof of magic."

"Thompson might have thought that I had cast it for her, to hide her lack of magic," Aldon clarified, with another small laugh. "Let me tell you though, the expression on his face when she pulled out the paper charm and let her spell go was priceless."

"You can't _marry _her, Aldon." That was Alice, again, her face carved in a harsh frown, looking right at Aldon as if Francesca didn't exist. "You're throwing your life away. _And_ it's illegal. The Ministry won't recognize a marriage between a halfblood and a Muggleborn. What will you do, raise your children as bastards? With what money? Are you going to expect her to work? You're _better_ than this, Aldon. You know better than this."

Aldon didn't react, instead only looking down at Francesca, the expression on his face odd. It was almost admiring, with a hint of something that Francesca didn't dare identify. Neal was a liar – if this was Aldon's acting, then he was easily as good as Archie. There was a pause as he looked at her, and his voice when he spoke was firm. "The world is a big place, Alice, and I thought that you, of all people, would understand. I have a few years to save money, then we'll go wherever my darling wants to live, and we'll figure it out. New York City, do you think? Or home, to San Francisco?"

"Um," Francesca said, blushing deeply. How was Aldon so good at acting? Her stomach was fluttering, a strange mix with the stabbing pains of her anxiety. What would one of the heroines of her romance novels say? "Anywhere with you would be fine."

Aldon sighed, turning away. "I really must meet your parents, as soon as possible," he muttered. "And buy a ring. Rings are important."

Francesca felt like she would die of embarrassment. Some part of her was floating, swooning like when she read her romance novels, but most of her just wanted to melt into a puddle and disappear. Her ears were burning. "It's – it's too soon," she stammered. "Too soon, and we're too young. You're so – so impatient."

She was a terrible actress. Archie could act circles around her. Her lines were awful and contrived.

"How long as it been, anyway?" Lucian asked, giving her a small smile of his own. It was a friendly enough smile, with something a little unsure about it, but at least he addressed her directly. Adrian was eyeing her like she was some sort of feral animal, while Alice treated her presence like a personal affront, pretending she wasn't even there. "You met during the summer?"

"After the trial." Aldon picked up the thread of conversation, letting Francesca breathe a sigh of relief. She didn't know the story she was supposed to tell, anyway. They were hiding, as much as possible, her connection to the ACD so she didn't know how they were supposed to have met. "Archie insisted on inviting me to his birthday party, and Francesca was there. That night, all I could see was her – I don't remember Archie's other antics, or what we ate, or anything. After that, I wrangled myself a formal introduction. And here we are now."

"And your family, Francesca?" Ed asked, almost the first time he had spoken since Aldon had introduced her. His tone was bland, without any inflection whatsoever, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking. "Or the Lord Black, whom I suppose is your legal guardian while in Britain? What do they think?"

She glanced up at Aldon, not knowing what to say. Legal guardian? Francesca was her own person, and fifteen or not, she made her own decisions. Her parents were supportive of her independence. She had no idea what he was talking about, and this was Aldon's best friend, or former best friend. She didn't want to offend him.

"As I said, I haven't had the fortune of meeting her parents yet," Aldon said, sounding a little forlorn, while his grip on her tightened. It didn't hurt; strangely, it was comforting. "I don't know if they even know about me, yet. As for the Lord Black, Archie and their other friends are often around, and Kowalski is... absurdly overprotective of her, as are the Queenscoves. It was difficult enough getting permission to escort her to the Ball."

Francesca's eyebrows twitched upwards. That wasn't entirely a lie, though it wasn't true either, but she could see his intentions – he was linking her to both the Kowalskis and the Queenscoves, both well-known and powerful international families. She was close to John and to his family, but while she was friendly with Neal and Will, who had been dating John's sister forever, she had never met the rest of their clan. Still, there wasn't much she could say about it, not in front of these strangers, so she cast about for something else to say instead. "My parents, um, don't think I should be dating until I'm done school," she said, looking down and shifting her feet a little. "That's why I haven't said anything, Aldon. I, um, I told you that. Neal is nice, he lets us hang out together at Queenscove."

"Yes, and the Lord Queenscove's words to me were that, if there was any _funny business_, he would separate my head from my body and bury them on opposite sides of his rather large estate. And I don't _date_. I might not be noble any longer, but I still don't _date_." Aldon tapped her on her nose, an affectionate movement, and snorted, looking back at his friends. "You see the difficulty. She doesn't believe me when I say I really _must_ meet her parents."

"It's too early for that," Francesca insisted, a little weakly, but the circle of mages all laughed, and the conversation turned. Aldon asked something about Hogwarts, letting Lucian and Adrian regale them all with tales of professors that she didn't know and people that she didn't care about. She took another steadying breath, leaning into Aldon's arm, looking around.

The hall was crowded, hundreds of people now milling around, almost all of them in the floor-length ultra-conservative robes of Wizarding Britain. Francesca had never really liked robes – on top of being shapeless, they didn't really make any sense, when she really thought about them. They were supposed to be _traditional_, but what tradition were they drawing from? The Wizarding world had only separated from the No-Maj one in 1689, but robes had gone out of fashion outside of religious orders, the legal profession and academia sometime in the early middle ages, if not earlier. They had to have reinvented them at some point more recently and claimed that they were what mages had always worn. A return to Merlin movement or something, maybe.

The people who weren't in robes stood out. Naturally, she looked for John first, her mental link telling her his general direction and Gerry's unorthodox dress and red armband drawing her attention. Rolf Scamander was still standing with them, and they had been joined by a girl about her age in robes, with shoulder-length dark brown hair, built with wide shoulders and hips. Francesca didn't recognize her, but all three of the boys wore serious, considering expressions. She focused on John's eyes and their connection, but he was a little too far away; all she got was the girl's name, Millicent Bulstrode. She would have to ask John about her later.

Scanning the room, she spotted the Queenscove clan easily. Neal and his brothers were dressed in the traditional, close-fitting trousers and surcoat of Chinese heirloom-caster families, and they had even pulled out their family crests for the event. Their swords were in the open, belted at their waists, and Francesca was almost amused to note the differences between the three of them. Graeme was shorter than either of his younger brothers, but built broader, and his sword was a two-handed monster. Will was on the opposite end of the spectrum, tall but slender, his sword lighter, thinner, closer to a rapier. Neal was somewhere in the middle, taking after his father in colouring but with the leaner build of his mother's family.

With the Queenscoves, she spotted Tina, John's sister, who had opted for American-style, wine-coloured, wizarding dress robes. Kel was there too, standing with Neal's girlfriend, Yukimi Daiomaru – the two of them had eschewed both robes and kimono in favour of keikogi and hakama, the traditional clothing of Japanese traditional casters. She hadn't realized that Yuki knew any combat magic at all.

She glanced at Aldon, amusing herself for a moment with a memory of him in wizarding dress robes. She imagined that he had always thought he looked good in them, but she honestly hadn't noticed how handsome he was until he had gotten a haircut and proper clothing. Robes, no matter how finely tailored, ate him – he was too short to carry them off, and too slender to be anything but swallowed. His mop of near-shoulder-length hair hadn't helped, making him look dishevelled and unkempt. Someone like Aldon was born to wear clean lines: modern waistcoats, tapered trousers, even that leather jacket Archie and Sirius had bought him. He looked so handsome in it, even with the uncomfortable expression on his face, and she hadn't been able to help staring.

"Hmm?" Aldon glanced at her, and she realized that she was staring at him and blushed again. He smiled, a warm expression that somehow seemed odd on his face. "What is it, Francesca? I've been a poor escort, talking with my friends instead of paying attention to you."

Francesca shook her head quickly, embarrassed. She was here on a job, and she had been caught staring, and that wasn't very professional. And she didn't need more attention. Even if she would love a chance to talk to Neal, or Tina or Will, she could always go over to Queenscove after the Ball was over. John said that Will and Tina would be staying until the new year, the same as them.

"Lying." Aldon sighed, looking back at his friends, or his former friends. "I will try to catch up with you later."

She let him usher her away, even as she frowned. "You didn't have to," she whispered, as soon as they were out of earshot. "You could have kept talking to them."

"It is better for me to move on anyway," Aldon murmured back. "We need to draw attention, and while Adrian, in particular, will be delighted to spread word of my disgrace, we should likely drop the word in a few other ears as well. Ah, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, with Blaise Zabini – Theodore Nott would have been more useful, but I suppose they have cast him off after the trial."

Aldon steered her into another circle, this one with a very pretty girl with waist-length, golden hair, who had one hand tucked in the elbow of the regal-looking boy beside her. Making up the circle was a dark-skinned man, smirking as he swirled a glass of wine idly in one hand.

"Pansy, a pleasure to see you in person after so long," Aldon began, with a short bow. "Congratulations on your engagement. Malfoy, Zabini."

The girl tilted her head, her curtain of hair sparkling as she flipped a lock over her shoulder. A genuine smile appeared on her lips, along with a look of surprise. "Thank you, Aldon, very much. It has been a long time in coming, and we are very grateful for your support. I must say, though, I am surprised to see you here – it is a bit of a risk for you, isn't it? And your friend."

Pansy's blue eyes turned towards Francesca, more thoughtful than anything else. There was some sort of glitter in the girl's hair – it shimmered, and Francesca couldn't help but take a tiny step closer to Aldon. The regal-looking blond boy beside her wore a surly expression, while the dark-skinned one was impassive.

Aldon smiled in reply, wrapping one warm arm around Francesca's shoulders. "A bit of a risk, yes, but I wanted Francesca to meet some of my old friends, to see a little of my world. Francesca Lam, meet Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini. They were Harriett's friends at Hogwarts. Francesca is a close friend of Archie's from school."

The blond boy's face twitched. "Are Harry's friends," he corrected, blunt, though he seemed preoccupied and disinterested. "We still _are_ Harry's friends."

Pansy threw him a look, before turning back to Aldon and Francesca. "I apologize for Draco. He had harboured a hope, I think, that we might have found Harry by now and brought her home, or that her cousin might have slipped her into the Ball somehow. Harry always said they were very close."

Aldon's eyebrows creased together in a slight, disapproving frown. "Even without the outstanding charges, with the Marriage Law…"

"The Marriage Law works in her favour," Draco snapped, coming alive to glare at Aldon. "She is engaged to Black, so she is now legally a pureblood. All she needs to do is marry him, or another pureblood, for that to continue. It's simple."

There was an awkward pause, into which Blaise snorted. "I rather think that is quite a lot to ask of someone, Draco, to marry someone they wouldn't choose. I also think, from the doting expression on Black's face when he looks at his companion, that he has every intention of breaking his engagement."

"Another pureblood, then. Halfblood or not, she's still a Book of Gold noble, and the Heiress Potter." Draco shook his head, dismissive. "Frankly, I'm shocked Black is flaunting his Muggleborn mistress in Society while engaged."

Francesca stiffened. She supposed she understood, to an extent – it did look awful that Archie was legally engaged and yet bringing Hermione out with him into the public. She even almost understood Draco's attitude to the Marriage Law, the very reason that Aldon had been avoiding the Wizarding world, because from what Aldon had said, nobles weren't taught to marry where they loved. They already used marriage as a tool for elevating status, so maybe the Marriage Law _did_ read, to many, like a very progressive piece of legislation.

The rest of her recoiled in disgust. Francesca was a romantic, and that aspect of her wasn't even hidden. She wanted a knight to come sweeping her off her feet; she wanted to fall madly in love, she wanted to marry a man she was _desperately_ in love with, she wanted a husband who would slay dragons for her. Men like that might not exist, but she still dreamed. Love and marriage should be sacred, not tools for political and social advancement.

Aldon's arm was tight around her. "I should note, perhaps, that Francesca is a Muggleborn. I think I see a cousin that I ought to greet; we must catch up another time, Pansy."

"My apologies, Aldon." The girl nodded, sighing. "I do miss you, with your self-imposed exile, but having met your companion, I think I understand better. Another time."

Aldon nodded crisply, then turned away, tucking Francesca's hand in his elbow without thought. It was a very medieval sort of movement, one which Francesca wasn't sure what to make of in real life instead of in a romance novel. So many things were awkward in real life compared to in a book.

They moved on – names, titles, and faces that all started to blur together in Francesca's mind. Aldon pointed out his parents, the Lord and Lady Rosier, from across the room but didn't try to approach them. Lord Evan Rosier was quite a bit taller than Aldon, though Aldon had clearly taken after him in looks, while the Lady Eveline Rosier was a brunette, around Aldon's height and what Francesca's mother would have called "pear-shaped". She met a few of his other cousins and former cousins, his other friendly acquaintances from Hogwarts: a spindly man with auburn hair called Nigel Fairister that she only remembered because Nigel was such a _British _name, Theodore Nott in a cluster of Aldon's former Avery cousins, all of whom turned their noses up at the both of them, Susan Bones who treated Aldon with wary caution but welcomed Francesca to Britain with open arms.

The reaction to the two of them was mixed. A few people stood out as being especially kind, asking Francesca questions that she would stutter through answering, if Aldon didn't answer for her. Most stared at her, at them, some openly horrified, others more subtle, and still others were expressionless while asking Aldon what he thought he was doing, bringing her into a major Society event. Everything about her was wrong – her dress was wrong, her accent was wrong, her magic was wrong, her blood was wrong. Aldon had stopped tucking her hand into his elbow after the third conversation, the one where his former cousins had almost thrown him out of their circle, keeping one arm tight around her waist as he guided her into the next one. It was as much for his comfort as hers, she suspected, because as flippantly as he was approaching each one, she thought the comments were starting to grind on him. _It's not real_, she wanted to remind him, but she couldn't find the words. She tried to imagine herself, reinvent herself, as one of the heroines from her romance novels, the ones who _always_ had a clever comeback for any insult, but she _wasn't_ one of them and the looks, the glares, the surface-deep pleasantries made her want to run and hide and never come out.

"Oh, is it time for the first dance, already?" Aldon said, looking around, blatantly ignoring the unwelcome looks they were receiving from this circle. He was, in her opinion, doing far too good of a job of playing at being in love with her. "We had better go, hadn't we, Francesca? She loves to dance, and I promised her a dozen if she would come with me tonight. I will see you all later."

"I bet she doesn't even know how to dance," someone whose name she had already forgotten muttered, while someone else snickered. "And preferably never."

Aldon flashed them a sharp grin, just letting them know that he had heard, but didn't reply. Instead, he led her onto that wonderful, hardwood dance floor, which instantly felt familiar even in a sea of unfriendly faces.

She spotted Archie leading a very frustrated and angry-looking Hermione onto the dance floor and gave him a tremulous smile. He winked back at her, letting her know they were fine, as the first bars of music came wafting through the air. Her left hand locked on Aldon's shoulder, her right in his hand, and her feet knew what to do. They found the tempo, and Aldon was a good lead, expertly keeping her from careening into any of the other pairs – no easy feat, when the floor was so crowded. It was almost as if a third of the room was now on the dance floor.

"The first dance is important," Aldon murmured, leaning down slightly to whisper into her ear, though his eyes were skimming the other couples over her head. "It signals new alliances, close relationships, courtships. Queenscove should be on the floor too, especially if he is looking to avoid overtures from other families."

"Neal isn't very good at dancing," Francesca replied, off-hand, following Aldon's gaze when he spun her around to see Neal and Yuki still talking in another quarter of the room. "For theatre, he used to just memorize my choreography, and he always talked me into making it easier for him. And maybe Yuki just doesn't want to dance – he did step on her foot rather a lot at the banquet for the Triwizard Tournament."

"Banquet?" Aldon raised an eyebrow, looking down at her. "During the Tournament?"

Francesca giggled, feeling herself loosen and relax a little from the last hour. "Yes, the North American League always hosts a team banquet for the Triwizard Tournament, and it's a big party because everyone invites their friends. We had people from about twelve, thirteen schools, I think – John invited his cousin Rolf, Neal his cousin from the National Magic School of China, Kel invited her friends from Mahoutokoro..."

Aldon nodded, listening, a slight smile on his face as she told him about that night, starting with Fei Long Lin's wild crash through an upper window during the last of the speeches, then challenging a room full of the top duellers from five schools to a seventy-five on one fight. Francesca was usually too shy and awkward to go out and meet anyone by herself, so she had stuck close to John until Gerry from Schwarzenstein had walked in, and then she had found Archie and made him dance with her until he, too, had tapped out. After that, she had soloed over the dance floor, until one of the boys from Ilvermorny had invited her to dance, followed by boys from the Collège, Cascadia, even one from the United Academy in Switzerland who had with a French accent so thick she had no idea what he was trying to say to her. Aldon's face grew more and more wistful as she told him about it, about how everyone had come together and danced through until midnight. It was one of her favourite memories, before everything had gone south.

"My experience was quite different," he said, in a pause between the first and second dance – or maybe it was the second and the third, Francesca wasn't keeping track anymore. His expression was a little sad, almost, imagining it. "Hogwarts… the Triwizard Tournament was a competition, one which it was assumed we would win. I don't know that anyone knew what to expect. Maybe Chang, but not the rest of us. I didn't realize that other teams were meeting, socializing, outside of games."

Francesca laughed, leaning into him. He did smell so good, intoxicating. "The entire North American League stayed together in one hotel, and Schwarzenstein and the United Academy were close to us, too. The Tournament – it's supposed to be an opportunity for us to meet people from other schools, as well as compete. Maybe, if you had grown up as a halfblood, we would have met there."

"If I had, I would have danced with you the entire night." Aldon's face was alive with interest, voice warm and low, striking something in her chest. The words were a little too close, a little too personal, especially when his arms were around her.

"We – we don't have to act, right now, Aldon," she whispered, looking down from him and fixing her eyes on his shiny, satin waistcoat. "I'm sure no one is listening to us. I – please don't act right now."

His hands on her stiffened, and his reply was curt, almost surprised. "Yes, of course," he said, and then he paused. "It's about time. Fifth dance. Are you ready?"

Francesca took a deep breath, pulling herself together. This was what she had come here for, and she would carry it off. A performance, a magical dance routine like Wizarding Britain had never seen, and she recognized the bars of music that were coming across the dance floor now. Aldon was good – he had predicted the exact piece that they would be playing.

She broke from the closed position of the International Standard Waltz, sliding into the first open position of the American Smooth, letting go of Aldon's shoulder and slipping out of his grip, but keeping his hand in hers as she started the stairwell ascent into the air. He followed with a hesitation change, just slightly off beat from the music, drawing attention to her movement. She smiled at him, her best performance smile – an invitation to join her.

He scowled at her, and she let go of his hand, spinning around him in the air in a wide circle. No one in Wizarding Britain seemed to do magical dance, and the space above the floor was a breath of fresh air. Aldon executed a second, perfect hesitation change, watching her, expression conflicted, and Francesca made sure the modesty charm on her skirt was active as she pulled off a spin that had come straight from swing. Her choreography was mostly International Standard Waltz on the paired sections, which was the closest to what Aldon knew, but with significant influence from the American Smooth style which permitted open positions. Her solo sections she had gone with a mix of her favourites – moves from swing and contemporary, a few jumps and spins, but nothing too complicated. She wasn't aiming to maximize her technical scores here, only make something beautiful.

She prepared the first spell in her mind, a simple spark shower, letting it go when Aldon shook his head and followed her into the air. She threw a second set of spark runes onto his boots with a small flick, activating them when he finally reached her level. He caught her, and they danced one circular round in the air, while Francesca prepared her next few spells – light spells to dance around their heads, above them, two lovers meeting under a starry night sky. He tried to cast her off, sending her spinning away from him, which were her opportunities to show off. A promenade spell let her glide into her first jumping spin-pass, two singles in quick succession, before she was caught by Aldon, who had his own footwork to follow her. Her second pass only had one double spin jump, but a second spin, and the last one was entirely contemporary, involving no spins at all but several jumps and poses. She couldn't see how Aldon was executing his half of the choreography, not between the five spells she was now maintaining, enforcing an artificial darkness above them as well as the sparks of stars, her air-hardening spell, and a soft golden glow from her and a heavy dark aura around Aldon.

They were the Lady Light and the Dark Lord, and she let Aldon catch her after her third pass. This time, he didn't let her go, seconds later – this time, he seemed to have given in, and he kept a firm grip on her as they entered the second phase of her choreography. She handed control over to him, letting her lead her through the next series of steps, while she prepared the next set of illusion spells.

The next set of illusion spells were harder. She had to shred her own careful illusion work above them, letting in parts of the real world, ripping tears in her own work while maintaining those spells in other sections. The light of the room began leaking through the runic darkness spell, and just to mark it and draw even more attention, Francesca let loose a small lightning spell, keeping it small enough that it went nowhere near the crowds below. She didn't need the lightning, though it didn't hurt, but it was the crack of thunder she wanted as she spun away from him. This time, she danced away, out of reach, while Aldon tried to recapture her, as she shredded her night sky above into ribbons.

If Aldon could do magical dance, he would have taken over half of the spells, and Francesca wouldn't feel so heavy from the drag of her magic. She still had one more to cast, too, a complex layered illusion. She had calculated it exactly – she had enough magic for this performance, but it would drain her. A check on her core, but she was on track. She skipped away from Aldon's reaching arms, but her footwork was all circles, all quick turns, while Aldon's was straight lines, direct. He had to catch her, because Lady Light didn't really want to escape, she only wanted to bring him into the Light with her as the Dark Lord tried to pull her into darkness.

Aldon caught her, and Francesca couldn't help but let out a small squeak. This was the grand finale of the performance, but she was so distracted by the weight of her spells that she barely noticed. It didn't matter – over everything else, no one would hear it, and she jumped, just as expected, her body taking over the movements that she had memorized over the last two and a half weeks. Aldon let his grip on her slip, and she dropped, a back turn as she let go of her air hardening spell and plummeted to the ground. A half-pike, one full rotation, before rolling in a traditional fall position, and she had to trust that Aldon would be there at the bottom to catch her.

He was there, grabbing her out of the air and Francesca focused, wiping the rest of her spells with a sharp termination rune and executing two new spells in quick succession – another darkness spell, one strong enough to blast out from the two of them in a concussive wave, and a spark spell, filling the darkness with pinpricks of light, a mix of light and dark so much prettier than neutral grey. It was a powerful spell, wiping her core entirely, but the spell lingered, where it would bleed away over the next few minutes.

It was perfect. It had gone perfectly, and she hadn't seen half of Aldon's movements but if he had managed to catch her, he had to have done everything right. She looked down at him, since he hadn't set her on the ground yet – he had worked so hard, and her arms went around him in a hard, genuine hug, one filled with sweaty joy and satisfaction and exhaustion. He was breathing heavily, and she pulled back to tell him how well he had done.

He was staring at her, shocked, and her own eyes widened in surprise. Then his lips were on hers, warm and sweet, and she sagged, sinking into him, falling into his kiss.

_Oh._

XXX

Aldon froze, his lips on hers.

It was too easy. The whole night had been too easy, living the lie had been both harder and easier than he had expected. From the minute Francesca had walked out into the Grimmauld Place kitchen, the comb he had given her shining in her dark hair, he had known he was in trouble. That cream-coloured ivory dress hugged her delicate curves in all the best ways, the cowl at her neck building up her chest without being immodest and the skirt flaring at her waist to emphasize her slender legs and perfectly proportioned hips. He had never been one to focus on a woman's chest, rather their hips and legs, and Francesca's were perfect. He could perfectly imagine himself beside her, doting on her, and she fit so nicely against him.

Every conversation he had with her that night, every time she had looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and trusting, even admiring, every time she had leaned into him for comfort… it had been the sweetest torment he could imagine for himself, and it was all too easy for him to fall into it, to make himself _believe_ that everything was true. It wasn't, but it was there, and she was there, and the line had blurred all night.

And now he had crossed it. He had crossed the line, and he set her down, pulling back, his mouth opening for a very hasty, very sincere apology. He _was_ sorry – it was an action he couldn't take back, and what would he do now? What _could_ he do now?

She looked up at him, still leaning into him, her eyes wide and shocked.

"I'm so—" he started, but she reached up, one hand running a finger along his jaw, and gently pressed her lips back against his.

She was leaning on him, letting him take her weight. Her lips were plump, tasting like strawberries, and he reached one hand up to her soft, round cheek. His other hand rested in the small of her back, supportive, holding her close to him. He could feel every curve of her body against his, and it was perfect. Everything was perfect.

She pulled back, hesitant, shyly bringing her hands back to rest on his chest, her expression an open mix of joy, nervousness, and fear. Aldon understood because that expression mirrored his own feelings. He felt as if he stood on the edge of a precipice, the point after which there would be no return, and in that split second, he made a choice.

He smiled, and he leaned back down, and he kissed her _properly_. He forgot, or perhaps he simply did not care, that he was on a platform in front of all of Wizarding British Society and then some. He was persona non grata anyway, and this entire evening had been meant to emphasize that Aldon Blake was not Aldon Rosier. Forget Lord Sirius Black, Aldon Blake was the new bad boy of Wizarding Britain, and kissing his beautiful Muggleborn _girlfriend_ (until he had a better word for her) at a major society event was, well, it was real. It was real, and it was perfect, and Aldon was on top of the world.

Aldon was on top of the world. He didn't care who approached him, or who said what, or what happened next, because _nothing_ could deflate him at this instant. He would deal with Kowalski and whatever fit he was likely to throw – and Queenscove, well, Queenscove would let his brother sleep with Kowalski's unmarried sister in his castle, so he was sure he could talk him out of whatever objections he might have. Unlike William Queenscove, Aldon would make sure all the formalities were followed. He would need to meet her parents, and arrangements would need to be made, but they would happen. She had kissed him, and even now she was leaning into him, kissing him back, her hands gripping a little at his waistcoat, so he would make them happen. He could do _anything_ at that moment.

"That is quite enough, Mr. Blake."

That low voice was one that Aldon recognized instantly, and it was not one that anyone disobeyed. Still, he broke off his kiss gently before pushing Francesca to stand behind him.

"Lord Riddle," he replied, sweeping a perfect thirty-degree bow. He should have bowed lower, but he didn't, because he was in front of Francesca Lam and he could not afford to present himself as anything but an equal. He felt her hands, trembling, on his back and waist, her warmth as she hid behind him from the most powerful politician, if not also the most powerful wizard, in Wizarding Britain.

"A beautiful performance," Riddle said, though Aldon did not believe for a second that he meant it. "Beautiful, but flashy and wasteful, as one expects American magic to be."

"Beautiful things have a value entirely their own," Aldon retorted, scrambling for an answer and finding, surprisingly, that he even believed it. "They cannot be measured by the amount of magic invested in them."

Lord Riddle was unlikely to do anything to the two of them – not here, and not now. Not when Aldon was no one, when this very performance, dance floor kiss included, already provided Riddle with a litany of terrible things to say about him. Aldon Rosier had fallen away from his noble pretensions, he had forgotten the value of magic, and he was not a worthy person with whom anyone should associate. Lord Riddle had no need to take any active steps against him, because Aldon posed no threat at all.

"Your performance ought to have ended with the beauty, before turning to the indecent." Riddle's dark eyes shifted, turning on Francesca, huddled behind him. "Your … companion."

"What of her?"

Riddle's expression betrayed a hint of distaste, which Aldon knew hid a much deeper disgust, something that set his back teeth on edge. Riddle could have chosen to hide it, but he hadn't – because Francesca wasn't worth it. Riddle couldn't see the beauty, the brilliance, the million little things that Aldon admired about her – all he could see was her blood. "She's completely drained. Barely above Squib-levels to begin with, I would imagine."

"From a theoretical perspective, there is a minimum amount of power that must exist before magic even asserts itself. _Barely above Squib-levels_ is meaningless." Aldon narrowed his eyes. That was true; if it wasn't, then they would see partial gifts, or very weak gifts, ones that did not allow witches and wizards to complete even basic spells. And yet, every witch or wizard, if they had magic at all, had a minimum level which enabled them to function in magical society. Francesca rested at that level, and so did many competent witches and wizards.

Riddle paused, examining Francesca again, and Aldon tried to shift to shield her better, feeling her shaking a little against his back – out of fear or only magical exhaustion, he didn't know. "You could do better, Mr. Blake. You were a promising and intelligent wizard – with the Marriage Law, I assume you have dozens of more appropriate marriage partners lined up. Make the right choices, and you would do well."

"I think I have done well." Aldon's voice was ice and his frown etched deeper, and he ordered himself to keep his hands loose, easy, when they were more inclined to ball into fists. He could say whatever he wanted, but none of it mattered. Aldon was no one. Aldon was persona non grata, and he wasn't even a particularly powerful wizard. Aldon could fling words in response, he could throw himself between Francesca and Lord Riddle, but there was nothing else he could do if Lord Riddle decided to take any other action. He was solely relying on the fact that Lord Riddle wouldn't, not at a major Society event, not when he didn't need to do anything at all.

It burned. He _wanted_ to do something. He wanted to _mean_ something.

"Your companion needs to eat," Riddle said, turning away dismissive. He was done. "She's pale."

Aldon took a slow, shaky breath, hearing the music for the sixth set starting above him, and turned around to take Francesca in his arms. One glance down at her, and his decision was made. She was pale, still shaking, with almost a grey tinge to her skin. She did need something to eat, and Aldon knew she would skip if it he let her. There was a reason that her friends at school had to escort her to meals – from the little that Aldon had gathered, it was some combination of the fact that she didn't feel hungry if she was focused on work, and the fact that most food at school made her stomach hurt.

"We should try the refreshments," Aldon said firmly, directing her towards the back of the room, where a long table covered in hors d'oeuvres sat. He could see small glasses of soup, one a pale green and another orange, crackers covered in smoked salmon and capers, small puff pastries filled with sausage, piles of cheese and other charcuterie. "We paid an exorbitant amount for them, so we should try them before writing them off, at least."

If he hadn't known she had to be exhausted by the look on her face, he would have known from the way she only pulled a small face before allowing herself to be steered in the direction of the refreshments table. She let him fill a plate for her, shaking her head firmly at the puff pastries but accepting one of the tiny soups, a few of the crackers, a little bit of cheese and meat. He led her to a clear spot, close to one wall, positioning himself between her and the easy view of the crowd. He couldn't resist standing close to her, feeling her warmth, one hand resting on her upper arm as he watched her pick through the food on her plate.

She nibbled on one of the crackers, more out of need than any apparent desire for it. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze fixed on the tiny plate he had put in her small hands.

"I thought you were gay," she said finally, her voice soft. "I mean – you—"

"I am equally attracted to both sexes," Aldon corrected, equally quiet, tilting his head. "It is considered rude in Wizarding Britain to prefer one over the other, but I have always genuinely been attracted to both sexes."

"Oh."

There was so much trapped in that one word, and a faint blush had reappeared on her cheeks. Aldon couldn't help but smile, brushing a strand of her hair over her shoulder. She didn't need it, because her hair was always perfect and tonight was no exception, but he couldn't help it. "We should likely discuss this, though. Later. And I really should meet your parents."

She giggled, the sound bubbly, glancing up at him. "And it really is too early for that."

"But I really don't date," Aldon retorted lightly, letting his hand rest again on her shoulder. He didn't want to let go of her. "I wasn't lying about that. Men of my status don't date, Francesca. Or my former status. I don't date."

"What is it that you do, then, if not date?" Her smile was light, teasing, and her face was lit was mischievous sort of curiosity. "What fancy word do you call it?"

He leaned down to whisper directly into the curve of her ear. "Marriage."

She burst into laughter, pushing him away with one hand as she turned around to put her empty plate on a table nearby. "And it's _really, really_ too early for that."

"And a thousand years too early for me to overhear that," a voice said, filled with disgust. "That was so nauseating that I don't even think I can find enough words to describe it. You're putting me off my wine."

Aldon whipped around, though he recognized the slow, chilly drawl. Caelum Lestrange leaned against the wall, a few feet away from them – Aldon had not noticed him earlier, a failing for which he was now cursing himself. He had been too occupied with Francesca, trying to find a clear enough spot where he could just look at her, talk to her, focus on her and nothing but her.

He had been having such a nice conversation with her. She had laughed. They had bantered. The stiff silence of their in-person interactions had cracked, broken, and there was something between them that had felt _right_, like the Francesca Lam of the communication orb was finally standing in front of him. And Caelum Lestrange, his second cousin through his Great-Aunt Druella, who had married into the Black Family, had had to ruin it.

He hated Lestrange.

"Caelum," he said, acknowledging him with a slight nod, and being somewhat satisfied when Lestrange's lip curled. He checked quickly for Francesca and saw that she had smartly stepped behind him. "No one invited your opinion."

"No one invited you here, yet here you are." Lestrange swirled his glass of wine, uncaring. "I saw your little performance."

"You would have been blind not to have seen it."

"I wish I were blind." Lestrange snorted, throwing back a third of his glass. "I would rather have seen you fucking an animal – at least that could have been explained by an improperly brewed lust potion. Though, she's little more than a monkey anyway, so maybe you did fuck a monkey in the middle of Society."

Aldon froze, a numb feeling starting from the top of his head and spreading slowly down his body. He couldn't believe he had heard those words, and yet he knew that he had, and Francesca was standing there behind him. And Lestrange had made no attempt to lower his voice, which meant that a few people around them were turning to look at them, frowning. His cousin had never been one to care what anyone thought of him, and he had enough status that, for the most part, people let him say whatever he wanted.

But Aldon was standing in front of Francesca, who had _heard_ him, along with the people around them.

"Take that back." Aldon's mouth was numb. He could do nothing about Riddle – he didn't have the political power, the magical power, or the influence to do anything. But this was Caelum Lestrange, Aldon's second cousin, whom he had never particularly liked, whom he _hated_ in this instant, and who didn't have the social, political, or magical power that Riddle did. "I demand that you take that back."

"Or what?" Lestrange narrowed his eyes at Aldon, looking down at him. "What are you going to do about it, _Blake?_"

"Demand satisfaction," Aldon said, the words falling out of his mouth, like a train that could not be stopped, like rocks tumbling down a ravine. They were so easy, those words, and he didn't even think before he repeated them. "You have paid my lady a grave insult, and I have demanded that you take it back. You have refused. As a blood noble, I now demand satisfaction from you for your insult to my lady's honour. Name your second."

XXX

_ANs: Merry Christmas, everyone! Yes, this is a few days early, even for me - I am away for the holidays visiting family and between family festivities and trips to theme parks planned for both Thursday and Friday, I decided I'd rather post early when I had a few hours for the final edits than worry about it while at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. And there's a certain poetic justice to posting the Christmas chapter on Christmas, too. Thanks as always to meek_bookworm, faithful beta-reader and to everyone who reads and comments on this work! I would love a review for the holidays from everyone (even if it is just screaming), and for those who missed it, reader graveexcitement has a fanfic essay on his dreamwidth with his fan theory on: Who is Lina Avery? _

_French translations, for those that need them: Neal says first, "Welcome, leave your luggage here." Jessa says, "It's so beautiful... Look!". Neal says, "It was here when I got here." Graeme swears. "Et toi"/"Et tu" means "And you", though the former is you in object form, the latter is you in subject form. Tina says "It's just two weeks", then "everything is okay", while Will replies "It's not okay." Finally, Neal says, "It's not the same thing" and Tina just repeats "Two weeks." And yes, this amount of language switching would be perfectly normal and natural for the Queenscoves, who are native speakers of both English and French. _

_Next Chapter: __What if we rewrite the stars? / Say you were made to be mine / Nothing could keep us apart / You'd be the one I was meant to find / It's up to you, and it's up to me / No one can say what we get to be / So why don't we rewrite the stars? / Maybe the world could be ours / Tonight (Rewrite the Stars, from The Greatest Showman soundtrack)_


	12. Chapter 12

Words had power.

Or, perhaps it wasn't just the words. Not every witch or wizard cast using Latinate words, for example – the Russians and Eastern Europeans preferred Old Slavic, and the Chinese used no words at all, only runes and intention. But words _worked _for magic, words carried power, and words that had been used in traditional rituals in both the wizarding and the Muggle worlds for centuries carried something of their very own.

Aldon hadn't even finished his words before the signs appeared – golden runes spilled out into the air above them, a wave of cool power sweeping through the grand hall, alerting all of Society to the challenge. First, it was the people closest to them that stared up at the runes, their conversations forgotten, then others farther away noticed and fell silent, a ripple that spread through the hall until everyone was silent, staring, or whispering quietly to their neighbours.

Aldon caught sight of Ed, still standing with Alice and a few others. His oldest friend was pale, open-mouthed, staring up at the symbols now dangling above Aldon's head. Queenscove, standing not far away in a cluster of his kin, had an expression somewhere between shock and resignation.

"Challenge has been given," someone said, stepping forward, and it took a moment for Aldon to place the voice. He was shaking, and it was only with conscious effort that his hands were not balled into fists, that his wand wasn't already out to hex his cousin. Lord Parkinson separated himself from the crowd that was slowing drawing away from Aldon, Lestrange, and Francesca, still standing behind him. "Caelum Lestrange, as the challenged, you have a second opportunity to retract your statement and concede rather than duel."

Lestrange glared at Aldon, then his cousin's icy blue eyes flicked out to the staring crowds. His lip curled. "I will not take back what was true."

"Then, as the challenged, you may name the date and time."

Lestrange turned to Aldon, scanning him with a dismissive note in his eyes. "Let it be now, before _Blake_ can disappear into the Muggle world, and before he can learn how to duel. Blake forgets that I went to _Durmstrang_."

Aldon had, in fact, forgotten that tiny detail. Still, as little as he knew about his second cousin, he was _fairly _sure that he had heard Lady Lestrange complain at length about both the stupidity and uselessness of her son. But Lestrange had also completed an internship at the Potions Guild alongside Harriett Potter, and Aldon knew what Harriett was like about Potions. He had never heard anyone mention anything about whether Lestrange could duel, and while he knew well that his cousin could be nasty, his nastiness had always been in words.

Then again, Aldon had little choice but to move forward now, regardless of what he might know or not. As the challenger, he had no opportunity to back down. This was _his_ duel of honour, and he had to survive it.

He felt almost the way he had in the Tournament, when he had done a blood oath because Harriett Potter had not wanted to reveal her secrets. There was a pleasant buzz running through his veins, and he felt _alive_. He always felt alive, nowadays, but the fresh line of adrenaline running through his body was heady, a drug, bringing a whole new intensity to _being alive_.

He looked behind him for Francesca. She was still there, but her breathing was uneven, erratic as she hid behind him. He sighed, cursing mentally – she did not look well, and he would have to make sure she was with one of her friends while he fought. But for now, he had to get through the pre-duel formalities, and he had to put forward a strong face.

"Lestrange forgets that I was part of the duelling club at Hogwarts," Aldon said, turning back around and keeping his voice bored. He was stretching the truth, and his core let him know it. "Now will be fine."

Lord Parkinson studied him for a moment. "Then we will clear the floor. Seconds?"

Lestrange stared out on the crowds, his face blank. For all that he was noble, he had not been schooled in Britain, so he knew few people and asking someone to act as a second was no small thing. Aldon watched him carefully, reaching his hand back for Francesca – she put her hand in his, and squeezed hard. She was shaking, he could feel it through her hand, and he squeezed her hand back. Her hand was tiny in his.

"Edmund Rookwood," Lestrange said finally, and Aldon couldn't help a small intake of breath. "Heir Selwyn, and the son of my godfather."

Lord Parkinson looked out on the crowd, and Aldon saw Ed pulling himself away from Alice, who was now equally pale as her husband. "Heir Selwyn, do you accept the appointment?"

Ed's eyes flickered over to Aldon, but he couldn't read the expression in his oldest friend's eyes. There was a note of uncertainty, but then determination, and he had no idea what Ed was thinking. "I do."

Aldon shook his head, very slightly, as Francesca squeezed his hand again. He had not really expected Ed to accept, but as the son of Lestrange's godfather, maybe he had little choice. But there was something about it nonetheless that burned, painful, in his chest.

"Aldon Blake, your second?"

Aldon took a deep breath, considering his options. He didn't really have any options – Ed would have been his choice, but Lestrange had beaten him to it. Who did he know that was here, who could duel? Kowalski might have been a good choice, but Aldon couldn't be sure that Kowalski would accept, and Aldon had spent the night, if not the last four months, happily torching his other connections. There was only one other person he could try.

"Lord Nealan Queenscove," Aldon said, hoping against hope that Queenscove would accept. Queenscove could duel, and even if Aldon hadn't gone in detail on formal duels of honour, he had taught Queenscove about them. He remembered, because Queenscove had complained, at considerable length, about the uselessness of knowing how to do a formal duel of honour, because it was 1995 and no one challenged people to duels anymore.

"_Tabernak_," he heard Queenscove swearing, stepping forward from his cluster of family members. Aldon marked them in his head – they were the safest group for him to deposit Francesca with while he fought for his life. Queenscove answered before Lord Parkinson could ask. "Yes, yes, I accept the appointment, _que Dieu vienne m'aider_."

God help me, Aldon translated mentally, even as he was sighing with relief on the inside. At least he had a second – a strong one, though he had no idea how Queenscove measured against his oldest friend. He hoped it would not come to the involvement of seconds – hopefully, he would be able to force Lestrange to a surrender and no seconds would be needed at all. Even before the duel, there would be an opportunity for the named seconds to try to broker a peace, one which was not announced to the crowds, which would allow both he and Lestrange to walk away, honour intact.

"Very well," Lord Parkinson said, nodding sharply. "We shall clear the floor. You have an hour for preparations and for your seconds to discuss."

Aldon nodded, turning to take Francesca in his arms and to usher her over to the Queenscoves. The second they reached the group, Tina Kowalski snatched Francesca out of his arms, pushing her towards William Queenscove, who took one look at her and pulled her with him to his father, Baird Queenscove. Baird leaned down to look at her, then reached into his pockets for a blue-tinted potion, which he uncorked for her because her hands were shaking too much to manage it. A Calming Draught, Aldon realized.

A smack on his shoulder brought his attention back to the people in front of him. Tina Kowalski was not a small woman, but she carried herself as if she was exactly the size that everyone wanted to be. "I am going to murder you," she hissed at him. "My brother and I will _murder _you for this. What the _fuck _was that about?"

"He _insulted_ her," Aldon snapped in reply, refusing to be cowed. He had a duel to fight in an hour, and he needed to discuss with Neal the next steps – the negotiation of seconds. "He insulted her, and he wouldn't take it back."

Neal sighed, rubbing his forehead, interceding and waving the older Kowalski away. "All right. What, exactly, did he say? I need to know, if I'm going to go in and negotiate a peace. Do you even know how to duel? Also, how the _hell_ am I supposed to negotiate peace?"

Aldon scowled, not wanting to repeat the words. He looked over at Francesca again, who now had the younger Kowalski at her side, and they were staring into each others' eyes in that odd way that he had walked in on a few times, and she was sniffling. He marked the oddity for later, but he didn't think she would hear him if he did repeat it. "He said that I might as well have _fucked a monkey_ in front of all of Wizarding Society. And she heard it. I didn't have a choice, Queenscove."

"If I'm going to be acting as a second for you, you might as well call me Neal." Neal blew out a breath, aggravated. "Fine, tell me what I need to know to make the other side back down, so you don't actually need to duel. Do you know how to duel? _Que Dieu vienne m'aider, _please tell me you know how to _fucking _duel."

"I didn't _lie_, entirely, when I said I was part of the duelling club," Aldon muttered in reply, keeping his voice down. "I _can_ duel. A little. It's not my preferred way of handling problems, but I have no _choice_, Neal. I can't let an insult like that pass. I want Lestrange to take it back, and if he doesn't, I _must_ duel him. I don't think he is a particularly good dueller either, his mother says he is an idiot."

"_Osti de criss de tabernak,_" Neal swore, then he sighed again. "Okay, fine. You want him to take it back, and if he does, we're done, right? No duel?"

"Yes," Aldon agreed, turning around and spotting Lestrange in a knot of his own kin, Ed standing by. Lestrange was scowling, and Aldon saw Lady Lestrange talking to her son, her face flushed with excited pleasure. Ed looked none too pleased, his mouth pressed together tightly, which Aldon guessed did not bode well. "I don't know if we'll get there, but if they refuse to back down, tell them that I look forward to eliminating a potential challenger to the Rosier seat."

"You're a nutcase. A complete and total nutcase." The floor was slowly clearing, Lord Parkinson and others gesturing for people to move to the side, making space for a duelling arena, but the Lestranges were still discussing. Neal shook his head. "I think we have a few minutes – what else do I need to know?"

Aldon shook his head, starting to run through his options. He was not a dueller, but he had his ACD, and he had charged his cufflinks earlier that day. And he had a ritual knife, and while he didn't know much blood magic, it was raw, relying more on intent than technique, and he was _absolutely _willing to resort to it in a moment of need. "Ed will want to end it if he can, but he has to follow Lestrange's directions. I am not hopeful that Lestrange will retract his statement – the Lestranges are not … known for their flexibility."

"_Câlisse_." Neal put his head in his hands. "What is the _point_ of what I'm about to do, then? Why the hell did you pick _me_ as your second?"

"Because I didn't have much choice." Aldon took a deep breath, considering his options. The ward contained in his ACD would give him a defensive edge, since it wouldn't fall to anything as simple as a _Pertus_, and it was a full ward, something more advanced than blended shield spells. His concern was on his offensive capabilities – he wanted to end it, as fast as possible, but as much as he could _defend_ himself, he didn't know how he could force Lestrange into submission. He would have to find a way. "Look – I don't think Lestrange is much of a dueller either. He's nasty, but historically he's only been nasty with _words_, and his mother has always been extremely denigrating about his capabilities. He's good at potions, but the likelihood of him carrying an explosive potion aren't high, and he will use most of what he has on me."

Neal sighed again, shaking his head. "Just so you know, this isn't endearing you to either John or his sister."

A pause, and Aldon shook his shoulders out, checking his multiple channelling methods. The cufflinks were still active, full, ready to go, and his ACD's batteries were full. His core was full. What was it that Malfoy had always made them do before they did anything in duelling club? He started stretching, the movements a little foreign, because he had never liked any of duelling club. "I don't have a choice, Neal. I don't have a choice. And she kissed me, she _kissed_ me, and I need to – I don't have a choice. I'll figure it out with Kowalski later."

"I can't say I understand, but fine. It's your funeral." A pause, and Aldon saw that Ed was done his discussions with the Lestranges and was striding out onto the centre of the floor. Neal drew in a deep breath. "Off I go. You better think up something brilliant, Aldon, because I don't want to be duelling today."

Aldon nodded, distracted, looking for Francesca. Kowalski, the younger one, was holding her, listening to the whispered conference his sister was now having with William Queenscove. He took a few steps closer to that group, ignoring the glares that were being thrown his way as he reached out to touch her on the shoulder. "Francesca, my darling?"

She didn't answer, but she looked at him, and he saw that her eyes were wet. Her makeup was coming off a little, but oddly he didn't find that bothersome in the least. She was still beautiful. He glared at Kowalski, hovering over her, but Kowalski only shook his head, refusing to leave. He would have to deal with Kowalski later, assuming he survived.

"I don't want you to watch," he said baldly, turning her to face him. "It's going to be messy, and dirty, and it's not something you should see."

"I've seen duelling before," she whispered, looking down. "I – I go to the competitions every year, with John. I watched the Tournament."

"But this isn't going to be that kind of competition, Francesca. I'm going to do my best, but Lestrange will be trying to murder me, and I have to respond in kind." Aldon's voice was calm, serious. "It's not something you should see."

She sniffled. "You shouldn't have – I'm not worth that. I can – I can take an insult."

"Let me be the judge of that," Aldon replied, glancing up at Kowalski, who only shook his head, disgusted. They would have words later, Aldon was sure. "May I?"

Kowalski shook his head again, seemingly even more disgusted. "That's not my choice. Chess?"

Francesca hesitated, and then she reached for him, and that one movement, that one motion, made Aldon all the more resolute. He would survive this, so that he could have her arms around him again, maybe even another kiss, though he really ought to speak to her parents before taking such a liberty again. An embrace was one thing – kisses were another. On the other hand, he had already broken that rule, so what was one more?

Especially because Aldon was fairly certain that his cousin _would_ be attempting to murder him, and in a world of druthers, he would rather have one more kiss than worry about propriety at this _exact instant_. He reached down, cradling her chin with one hand as he gently pressed his lips against hers again.

Her mouth was soft, even as she responded, a shy note of hesitance as she did so. She was so sweet, and if he survived this, he would do everything properly, he swore it. He would court her as she deserved to be courted, and the papers would be signed before he took any further liberties, and they would have a proper chaperone for any and all in-person meetings, and when she was seventeen, when she finished school, they would have the most lavish wedding he could afford. She deserved that much, and he would face down worse than Caelum Lestrange for her.

"No luck, Aldon." Neal's voice cut into his moment, and Aldon hastily broke off his kiss. "According to Rookwood, Lestrange spat out a stream of Russian which essentially translates as telling you to go fuck yourself. In the ass. Then Rookwood downplayed and said that he imagined he could talk Lestrange around if you simply withdrew your challenge with nothing further, no apology needed."

"Language, Neal," Aldon snapped, though he was unsurprised at his cousin's words. Still, Neal ought to have found a more decorous way to express the sentiment. "There are _women_ present. And why should I apologize? _He_ insulted _her_."

"Aldon, women know how to swear, and Tina swears far worse than that on a regular basis, I promise." Neal paused. "I did ask why you ought to apologize, and said that as long as he retracted the insult, we could all walk away, but according to Rookwood, Lestrange doesn't feel that he ought to retract the statement because, as lesser-blooded mages, you should be used to insults and he was only saying what everyone was thinking anyway. I might have hit him for that, but luckily, I have more self-control than you. Rookwood suggested you just concede, because you can't duel worth beans, so I hope you have a plan."

"A plan." Aldon couldn't help but snort, but Francesca was still there, in his arms, so he changed it hurriedly into a cough that he was sure Neal saw through. "Yes, a plan. I have one of those."

"Sure." Neal drew the word out, skeptical. "Come on then, leave Francesca to John and Tina. Let's go consider these _plans_ – Rookwood said he would report the result to Parkinson, we have a few minutes. I can't teach you duelling in the next five minutes, but hell if I'm not going to try."

Aldon sighed, reluctantly letting go of Francesca and pushing her back towards the younger Kowalski, with a final whisper for her not to watch whatever happened. She only shook her head mutely, then fished in her dress for a paper-charm.

"Lightning," she said, by way of explanation. "I – it's good I used it, earlier. Take it."

Aldon nodded, charging it pre-emptively and tucking it into his pocket. It bit into his core, but he had a few minutes for his core to try to recover before he actively started dueling. A few drops could make all the difference. He made sure she was back with Kowalski, now with his boyfriend, the German, at his side as well, and that she was turned around, her eyes hidden.

Looking out over the now cleared floor, he didn't need Neal to guide him to where he would stand – he had studied these rituals since he was a child, and he didn't need to see the markings to know the limits. Master Regulus Black was already setting up protective warding, to catch any wayward spells.

The only people permitted within the duelling arena were the Master of Ceremonies, the duellers and their seconds, and Aldon felt the pounding mix of dread and anticipation as he crossed the line where the protective wards would go up.

"Be straight with me, Aldon," Neal said, keeping his voice down, even if there was no real need. "How much duelling have you really done?"

Aldon shrugged, thinking through his options. It had to be tricks, with him. The ACD – he pulled up his sleeve and turned it on. It would take just over thirty seconds for the ward to form, during which he likely wouldn't be able to do much else, but he should be able to start it before the duel formally began. And he had fuelled both his cufflinks earlier that day, so those would add an edge for him. "I didn't lie about being in the duelling club. I wasn't particularly good at it, but I have done it. I don't know about Lestrange – everything I have heard about him from his mother is complaints that he's an idiot."

"I know nothing about the Lestranges, but you can't afford to rely on her comments," Neal replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "He went to Durmstrang – they're the only school that teaches free dueling, as well as an array of Dark spells that aren't taught anywhere else. You saw them during the Triwizard Tournament. What's your plan, if you don't duel that well?"

"Tricks." Aldon looked over to the other side of the duelling arena, where Lestrange was standing with Ed. Ed had his arms crossed over his chest as well, but he wasn't talking to his dueller; instead, Aldon met his eyes across the field, and Ed shook his head, very slightly. He had tried, Aldon thought that meant. "I have an ACD on me – a new model. It carries a ward in it, harder for Lestrange to break through than just shield spells. Francesca also made some cufflinks for me for Christmas, they're holding an elemental attack spell and shield spell, and she gave me a lightning charm. And I have a ritual knife, and I'm not afraid of using blood magic."

"Well, he has a ritual knife too, Lady Lestrange just gave him one." Neal sighed. "You're an idiot, Aldon. _T'es totalement fuck__é_, _tu sais?_"

"Yes, totally fucked, I understand," Aldon replied, glaring at his cousin across the duelling arena. He saw the ritual knife, but he didn't know if his cousin would know how to use it. "Why is it that when you speak English, you swear in bizarre Quebecois French, but when you speak French, you swear in bastardized English?"

Neal shrugged, ignoring the question. "Look, the most I can tell you is to keep moving and use everything you have. Don't hold back – you just can't afford to. Don't waste your time with anything big or showy either, a lot of beginner duellers do, but you need to go for smaller spells, or some creativity. Smaller spells are easier to get off, and speed is your friend. Lestrange feels like the kind of person who wants to go big and showy, but those spells will slow him down, so use that to press your advantage."

"Fine." Aldon's voice was terse, and he saw Lord Parkinson, stepping inside the ward. "If I die, do me a favour and make sure Francesca's cared for with your obscene amounts of money. You can afford it. And kill Lestrange for me, if you can. This is an open duel of honour – no charges can be laid for what happens within the arena."

"That's two favours, but fine. I would have cared for Francesca anyway, she's a friend and also basically my sister-in-law's little sister." Neal shook his head, resigned. "Try not to die, Aldon."

Aldon nodded mutely, then headed for the unmarked spot on his end of the arena. Lestrange, too, was taking his position, and Aldon surreptitiously threw a line of his magic to his ACD. Thirty seconds, and he would have a ward.

"Bow." Lord Parkinson's voice was emotionless, and Aldon bowed a perfect thirty degrees. There was a pause, but Lord Parkinson didn't comment. To be entirely proper, Aldon should have bowed forty-five degrees, while all Lestrange needed to do was fifteen degrees, the bow of a noble to a non-noble or a halfblood. The only reason Aldon was allowed to call a formal duel of honour at all was that he was a still a blood noble, even unacknowledged – he still had a wide array of rights, including making a claim for Lordship, though his claim was secondary to that of any legitimate heirs. It had happened, in the past, where a blood noble had taken the family title, though never without bloodshed.

In that light, duelling Lestrange was only one step closer to his title. Lestrange had a claim on the Rosier title, and if Aldon managed to kill him now, it was one less challenger later.

"On the count of three, you may begin. One, two—"

"_Avada Kedavra!" _Lestrange roared from across the arena, and Aldon didn't think before he released the shield spell he was holding in his right cufflink, followed quickly by the attack spell held in his left cufflink. The sheet of ice, four inches thick, ballooned into the air in front of him, catching the Killing Curse and shattering into green-tinted pieces on the floor, and Aldon quickly gave praise to the fact that his elemental affinity was ice, a _solid_, the only thing that could defend against the Killing Curse.

His attack spell, it turned out, fired an array of small icicles in Lestrange's general direction, which were deflected by a shield spell of some kind. Aldon didn't know shield spells well enough to tell which one it was, but his spikes bounced off, while he brought his wand into play_._

Lestrange flicked another spell at him, another one that Aldon didn't identify – his cousin cast in Old Slavic, which was not good. Verbal casting meant that none of what Lestrange was casting was secret, but since Aldon still didn't understand it, the advantage was lost on him.

His ward was not up in time, and a belated attempt at dodging only meant that Lestrange had scored a line on his upper arm, instead of anywhere more vital. It didn't feel critical, and he felt his ward snap into being around him, a second too late, but he growled out a _Bombarda_ spell. His arm burned, a line of fire, but he didn't have time to look at it and his left hand still worked. He fished out the paper spell in his pocket and let the lightning spell go, flashing across the arena with a wild crash of thunder.

"First blood goes to Caelum Lestrange," he heard Lord Parkinson announce, monotone, but Aldon ignored it in favour of moving, Malfoy's and Harriett's and Neal's words ringing in his mind. He wasn't especially athletic, and he knew he couldn't keep this up for long. He had to finish it, and he threw out a Piercing Spell, following by both a Severing Charm, and a Reductor Curse.

The Piercing Spell took care of the shield, and Aldon's Severing Charm was a direct hit, slashing a tear across Lestrange's shoulder. Now he had drawn blood too, not that that was of great use. Aldon was already panting – he was not used to moving so much, so quickly, and it showed. The only positive was that it didn't seem like his cousin was much of a dueller either, since he was stationary, barely having moved a single step since the duel had started. Lestrange fired another series of spells at him, but Aldon didn't worry about it – his ward deflected them, and he saw Lestrange frown, lifting his wand and casting something else.

Aldon leapt back, cursing in surprise as a cobra appeared on the ground, spitting poison. He threw out a _Fumos_ spell, disappearing into smoke, before he sheathed his wand and reached for his ritual knife. He didn't know whether the snake could see through the smoke or not, but he needed the cover for what he was about to do next – he was shaking, already bleeding, and he didn't have a _spell_ for what he wanted to happen. He reached for the cut on his arm, since he was bleeding, letting his blood collect on the blade, then he focused on what he _wanted_ to happen.

He wanted _fire_, and lots of it. He could do a fireball with _Inflamari, _or start a minor blaze with _Incendio_, but really he wanted fire across the floor, as if he had poured an accelerant over everything before he lit it aflame. Something that wouldn't be easily extinguished.

It took a hit out of his core, but it worked – nearly a two fifths of his core was gone in the spell, but with luck, the flames would hold. His ward would be able to handle it, but who knew if his cousin could. He could feel a wind blowing, taking out his smoke spell, and none too quickly as Aldon caught sight of what his blood magic had done.

There was fire, several bonfires and walls of flame linking them, and the cobra seemed more afraid of the flames than anything else. Aldon fired a dismissive _Incendio_ at it, letting his ward handle another of the spells that Lestrange was throwing at him, this one apparently an attempt at a shield-breaking charm. His ward was steady under the assault, so he drove the snake into one of the nearby lines of flame and made sure it shrivelled.

It was entirely luck that he heard Lestrange's command, and that he leapt out of the way of the _Imperius_ in time, his mouth thinning as he fired back with another _Depulso_, then _Everte Statum_, then another Reductor Curse. Aldon directed a line of his magic to refuel his shield cufflink – his ward would _not_ handle an Unforgiveable, and he supposed he should count it lucky that, wherever his cousin had picked up the Unforgiveable Curses, they were at least Latinate. Not Durmstrang, then.

Lestrange dodged the _Depulso_ and blocked the _Everte Statum_, but the Reductor caught him square across his chest, sending him flying. He fell into a line of flames, but was up and out, looking much the worse for wear with his robes smoking as he hissed another spell, one with a few quick movements, at Aldon.

It wasn't an Unforgiveable, so Aldon didn't worry about it, advancing on his cousin instead with his ritual dagger in his left hand and his wand in his right. Two spells slammed into his ward, and he immediately changed course when he felt his ward collapsing under them, jumping out of the way of a _Crucio_.

His cousin _was_ a nasty piece of work, Aldon thought, the Torture curse just missing him even as he let go of his second elemental shield spell and threw a line of magic at his ACD for a fresh ward. It was _hot_ in the duelling arena without it, his flames scorching, but he needed to buy just over thirty seconds of time before it would materialize again. He watched his cousin across the arena – he was far enough away, thankfully, that he had enough forewarning to dodge most of the spells thrown at him.

It was just thirty seconds, but to cover the fact that his magic was tied up in the ACD, he kept moving, waiting for the right moment to release his ice spike spell. He didn't know how effective it was likely to be when he had set the arena of fire, but it was _something, _and he pulled out Francesca's paper charm for good measure. It was spent, but Lestrange couldn't know that he hadn't refueled it, and that he didn't have one primed.

Lestrange watched him warily, before redoubling on his advantage, sending another array of spells at Aldon, which he dodged primarily through desperation and sheer, dumb luck. He took the opportunity to fire off his ice spike spell and saw that, in the heat of the arena, it had turned to more of a hailstorm. Not useful – it hit Lestrange square and did nothing.

His ward snapped back into being around him, and he could finally focus on the attack, on his wand magic. Lestrange had barely moved from where he had started – Aldon would have to take the fight to him, he realized, as little as he liked it. He moved, panting heavily and pushing himself as fast as possible, ducking another Torture Curse as it was flung his way.

_Big spells, showy spells_, Aldon realized. Just as Neal had said, and they slowed his cousin down. Lestrange was sweating in the heat, and Aldon fired off another stream of Cutting and Severing Charms. He couldn't be sure if any of them hit, because he dashed through one of his many walls of flame, his ward taking care of the heat, a direct path to his cousin.

The other problem with not moving, Aldon realized soon afterwards, was that his cousin was standing in a spot slippery with his own dripped blood, with the debris of his burned robes, with his sweat. He saw Aldon coming at him, wand in hand, bringing his wand back for another curse.

"_Avada," _he started, but he took a single, critical step back—

And he slipped. He slipped, and he went down heavily, and Aldon threw himself on top of his cousin, cutting off his air supply through the very practical means of resting his left arm, and most of his weight, on Lestrange's neck. His wand was out, pointing at Lestrange's eye.

"Do it," Aldon panted, grinding his arm against Lestrange's neck. He was sweating, and he didn't want to know what he looked like at this exact moment. "Finish that spell."

His cousin choked, his face red as he struggled to breathe.

There was a moment of ringing silence, and Aldon suddenly realized the scene that everyone was watching: the Ministry Unity Ball on fire, Aldon Blake-formerly-Rosier seemingly prepared to murder his cousin, Caelum Lestrange, in the course of a duel of honour.

He hoped that Francesca was not watching.

"His life is yours to take, Blake," Lord Parkinson said, his monotone voice cutting through Aldon's thoughts. "You have the right."

Francesca might be watching. He had told her not to, but it would be hard _not_ to watch, and her friends and family were watching besides. He had won – he had won, and that meant he had to consider what came next.

Lestrange was turning an unpleasant shade of aubergine.

Killing Lestrange when he didn't _have_ to would not endear him to the Kowalskis, whom he knew very well had considerable influence on Francesca. Francesca considered them to be her magical family, and that meant that Aldon had to earn his way into their esteem. It would be hard enough for him to earn his way back from this, as justified as it might be.

"I have no need to take his life, Lord Parkinson," he said, though he disarmed his cousin just because he would not put it past Lestrange to attempt to murder him even after the end of the duel. He slipped Lestrange's wand into his waistcoat, which was very much the worse for wear. "My victory demonstrates the righteousness of my cause. I will, in lieu, take Lestrange's wand and a life debt as appropriate recompense."

"Very well." Aldon did not look up, hearing Lord Parkinson's response. "I declare Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier to be the winner of this duel of honour. His victory demonstrates the righteousness of his cause, and he has taken a wand and a life debt as just recompense. This matter is now concluded, witnessed today by myself, Lord Cassius Julian Parkinson, acting as Master of Ceremonies."

Aldon breathed a sigh of relief, suddenly aching all over as he got up. Lestrange sat up, looking in equal measure disgusted and furious and, strangely, apprehensive. Aldon didn't worry about it, turning around instead to see Lord Malfoy, Master Regulus Black, Professor Snape, along with the Lord Black, Archie, Hermione, Remus Lupin and several others, were putting out the flames that he had spent blood to create. Lord Riddle did not look entirely happy at the state of affairs, and Aldon spent a moment considering why he had allowed it to go forward at all. Admittedly, there was likely little that he could have done; a duel of honour was a matter of right, and a personal matter between two nobles, not a matter an external party could opine on. He could have ordered the duel happen elsewhere, perhaps, but with Lestrange demanding it in the here and now, perhaps the choice had been taken out of his hands as well. And, Aldon had to consider, Lord Riddle had always enjoyed a certain pageantry. The very public death of halfblood Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier, who had unwisely challenged pureblood Caelum Magnus Lestrange to a duel of honour, was likely a desirable result permitting certain risks to be taken.

"Aldon," he heard a soft voice calling him, and he whipped around to see Francesca skirting her way through the flames, onto a field marred with spell marks and stained with blood and sweat. He cursed mentally and strode over to meet her – she ought to have stayed with the Kowalskis and the Queenscoves, not come out onto the arena floor. It wasn't a good place for her. "Aldon, are you all right?"

She looked frightened, ready to throw herself on him to reassure herself that he was fine, but he held up one hand to stop her from doing it. Her dress was white, a beautiful snow white, shining with the light of a glimmer charm, and he paused.

She looked so beautiful in the firelight, even if she had obviously been weeping, terrified.

Words had power, and so did moments. There were certain moments, after certain events, that carried a certain power of their own. Certain rituals done in these moments let one circumvent what would be the normal challenges, would force anyone and everyone to accept a particular result even if it went against all sense, all duty, all responsibility, and all _law_.

A victory over a duel of honour, over an insult to a lady, was one of those very precious moments.

He knelt, drawing his ritual knife as he did so and laying it on the ground before her. Traditionally, it would have been a sword, but he didn't have one, so his ritual knife it would have to be. He drew one of her hands, small and delicate, into both of his, and winced a little when he saw that his hands were covered in blood and soot. Well, not all romantic moments could be planned.

Francesca's mouth was open, her expression bewildered.

"Francesca Nga Bik Lam," he started, choking a little over her proper Cantonese name, a late night's conversation over communication orb completely inadequate for teaching him the proper pronunciation. "I have nothing to offer you. I am nothing – I am only a blood noble, and I have no great wealth or manor or title of my own. But all I have is yours, and everything I will ever have is yours. I swear, openly before witnesses and with no expectations, that I shall defend you with my wand and shield you with my name, from this moment henceforth, until my death. I ask, and this is a request only with no bearing on my oath, that you might be mine, to have and to hold, until death do us part."

XXX

"_Shit!_"

Archie looked over at his Dad, who had gone pale. He had never heard his Dad swear before – or rather, he probably had, but the times were so rare that he couldn't bring any occasion to mind. He hadn't seen Dad like _this_ before.

Dad caught his eye and shook his head. "It's a ritual, Arch," he explained, words tumbling fast as if he were Archie himself, but instead of excitement it was urgency driving his speech. "A formal proposal of marriage on the heels of a duel of honour – it's old magic. It doesn't follow any laws, it's beyond our laws. If she says yes, she's legally considered married, and that's _it_."

"What, with nothing else?" Archie blinked, bewildered. "I don't understand—"

"Your mum and I decided that you didn't need to know the old rituals, because we figured you would get into less trouble that way," Dad explained, eyes wide in horror, staring at the scene in front of them. "Like this. Aldon's doing this to skirt the Marriage Law."

Archie looked back over the scene with new eyes. Before, he had thought the whole thing a little romantic, straight out of one of Chess' romance novels, exactly the kind of thing that she would like, but that was only if it _wasn't real_. This was _very _real, and Chess was _fifteen _– it was far, far too early for any proposal, not in any world which was not _Wizarding Britain_.

He glanced back at Dad, who had a furrow in his brows. He was muttering under his breath, something about _acceptable diversions_. Archie needed to get this information over to Chess, before Chess could say anything that would lock her permanently into a marriage at _fifteen_. Wizarding Britain's laws on divorce were regressive, to say the least, and he somehow doubted the _old rituals_ had any divorce clauses.

John. The answer was John. No one was watching Archie as he carefully aimed a small _Depulso_, the smallest one he could manage, at his friend. _Depulso_ was a general blunt force attack, a little stronger than a _Flipendo,_ the main advantage of it being that it appeared as a wave of power, rather than a beam of light. It was harder to block, and invisible, though Archie purposely made the spell as weak as he could. He only wanted John's _attention_, not anything else.

It worked. John looked over at him, and Archie dropped his mental shields, throwing the knowledge at him like a bomb out of his mists. _It's a real marriage, John! She can't say yes. Do something!_

John's face turned into a scowl as he strode forward, obviously planning on interceding. Chess saw the movement, caught his eye, and that was all that she needed.

Her mouth opened in a gasp, and there was a slight hiccough of breath, and she turned around and bolted. Aldon got up and went after her a few steps, but she whipped around, pulling out one of her spells, and Archie brought his wand out – he knew what Chess was carrying today, because he had watched her make half the spells two nights ago, charging them full with her magic. None of them were nice.

There were no words, but her eyes were filled with tears, her mouth set in anger and betrayal. She just released the spell, and Archie threw out a shield more out of instinct than anything else, uselessly covering himself, Hermione and Dad.

Fire exploded out at Aldon, which he had been caught too flatfooted to block. Instead, a chill wind caught the flames, overpowering, dispersing the embers into nothing, and Archie saw that Neal had drawn his sword. He turned his attention back to Chess, who was bolting for the Floo hallway, John not far behind her. Back to Grimmauld Place, Archie hoped.

He looked down at the floor, but Neal was already striding across the floor to Aldon, so Archie didn't worry about it. He trusted that Neal would take care of Aldon, who was looking much the worse for wear after his duel.

"I think I've had enough for one night, what do you think?" he said, turning around to Dad and Hermione with a sterling attempt at a grin. "I love excitement as much as the next person, but it's past my bedtime and I'm all tuckered out. Can we go home now?"

XXX

Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier was an idiot, Neal decided, not for the first time that night as he watched Francesca run from Aldon's overeager declaration of intent. Granted, he had always kind of thought Aldon was an idiot, as well as an ultra-conservative pureblood noble, even if by happenstance of birth Aldon was neither a pureblood nor a recognized heir. But this particular escapade demonstrated new heights in his friend's sheer stupidity.

A friend – for that was what Aldon was. He had been for months, for all that they had called each other _Blake_ and _Queenscove_ and threw entertaining insults at each other hourly, for all that Neal paid Aldon for his time teaching him noble etiquette and plotting his course through Wizarding British Society. Given where Aldon had started, the set of rules and the education and culture that he had absorbed, and given where he was now, Neal couldn't help but like him. Aldon was floundering in a world where his status had changed abruptly for the worse, and overall, Neal thought he was handling it pretty well.

Since when had he become the sensible one? He wondered idly, striding over to look Aldon over, sheathing his sword and drawing his wand instead. That cut on his arm looked nasty, and Neal suspected more injuries than that. Aldon really was an awful dueller, and if it wasn't for Francesca's ACD and those cufflinks, he would have been dead. Beyond question, he would have been dead within the first thirty seconds. Neal had winced at the first Killing Curse, a ball of combined fury and shock deep in his stomach as he prepared to leap in to retaliate, when Aldon's ice shield had kicked in.

Even after that, it looked as though Aldon was sunk. He hadn't blocked the spells coming, nor did his feet move fast enough, and whatever Lestrange had cast had hit him in the arm. A slashing or cutting curse, Neal thought, but it could have been worse. It was really only when Aldon had pulled out the blood magic that he had begun having something like a chance, bringing fire into the arena. Neal had been fine, calling on a small winter wind to keep the heat at bay, but he had seen how Lestrange and Rookwood had sweated in the hell that Aldon had created.

Though, he _had_ told Aldon, no big flashy spells. His friend had apparently tossed that piece of advice out the window.

Aldon was lucky that Lestrange was no better a dueller than he. Neal had seen it within the first two minutes – Lestrange hadn't moved around as much as an experienced dueller would, he had gone for big spells like the Unforgiveable Curses, he had almost entirely attacked Aldon directly rather than changing the environment or terrain around him to his advantage. His knees were locked, his grip on his wand too tight, and he had been glaring at Aldon and only at Aldon. Basic errors – Neal probably could have gutted him in less than three minutes. Kel would have taken even less time, because her elemental affinity, earth, was a solid. Heck, Kel probably would have just opened a crevasse under him and watched him fall. Even Yuki, peppery Yuki who Neal had the pleasure of seeing in the lists this holiday, could have taken Lestrange down without too much trouble.

Neal glanced up at Yuki, who raised an eyebrow at him. He shot her a wry grin, nodding at Aldon, and she shook her head with a small smile of her own. She understood.

Aldon's eventual victory was still more luck. Neal had been ready to dive into combat, seeing the Killing Curse coming, when Aldon had plowed into Lestrange and slammed his arm across Lestrange's windpipe. A win was a win, but Neal would have to make sure that Aldon learned how to duel if he was going to engage in this sort of insanity on a regular basis. He considered, offhand, what bribes he could offer to get Aldon into his lists.

"You're an idiot," he announced, voice firm as he turned Aldon around to face him and ran a diagnostic charm. A number of cuts and bruises, including the deep one across his shoulder, which was also poisoned. More than one spell had hit him, Aldon just had the good fortune not to have noticed, and none of them had been debilitating. He sighed and started weaving a Healing spell. "Do I need to say it in French, too? _T'es idiot._"

Aldon didn't answer, still staring off to where Francesca had disappeared, John hot on her heels. The Blacks, too, seemed to be heading in that direction. Aldon's face was carefully poised, blank, but Neal thought he could read some hurt in his eyes.

"So, what was that about, eh?" he said, switching into full French. He knew perfectly well that Aldon understood the language, though he rarely spoke it, preferring to reply in English. French was not the best secret language to use in Britain, but it wasn't as if Aldon spoke Mandarin. It was something though, and it should take a few minutes for any eavesdroppers to decipher Neal's accent anyway, which Aldon was already accustomed to. "Explain."

Aldon looked at Neal, and he looked at the people around him, and he sighed. He thought for a moment, before speaking – in French. His accent was tolerable, if not perfect, and while he fumbled with his words, he seemed competent enough in the language. "I – she kissed me. So, I proposed – I would have done so anyway, but this way, we wouldn't have to worry about the Marriage Law, because a proposal in these circumstances means that all of Society would have to accept us. It's an old rite, the most romantic one – she _is_ a romantic. I know, from too many conversations I wasn't supposed to have with her, for months. And she kissed me, so – so she cares for me too. I don't understand."

"Whereas I don't know where to begin," Neal replied, his voice dry with humour. He had finished purging Aldon of poison, which would have become a problem a few hours from now, and moved on to Healing the cuts, still sluggishly bleeding. "Your relationship just changed tonight, didn't it? You were still doing that mooning thing a few days ago, and I heard about that comb – must have cost you a week's pay, that."

"Two weeks." Aldon took a deep breath. "Just because I wanted one of those smiles. The ones that light up her whole face. And she took it, and the expression when she opened it – it was _better_ than that. It was shock, it was happiness, it was … I don't know how to say it. Something profound."

"Profound," Neal drawled, a little mocking, but shook his head when Aldon glared at him. He finished up with one cut and moved on. "Sorry, sorry, not the right time, I know, but I couldn't resist. Those smiles were a recurring theme among her hopeful suitors. The ones where she forgets about being anxious and terrified of everyone, or being anxious and hating everyone, Faleron called them."

Aldon paused, his poised expression breaking for a moment into surprise, then annoyance. "Faleron," he repeated, his voice cool and scathing. "Is he the only one?"

"Like I would know." Neal examined the scar on Aldon's shoulder, and decided he had done his best, and what remained was as best as it would ever be. Blood magic always scarred. One could always tell a bloodmage by the number of scars they had, especially on their arms. "There were always a few. John used to ask me for backup if he needed to face one down, but I only went with him once, when Emile Shirazi wouldn't take no for an answer – Francesca made the mistake of going to the Midwinter Ball with him, just as friends. He got other ideas in his head later. No one is ever going to be good enough for her in John's books, you know. There were always suitors around Francesca when I was at AIM, and there probably still are, but to your credit, you're probably the first one that she's ever liked back. As far as I know, anyway."

Aldon frowned. "Then I don't understand. I gave her the most romantic proposal possible in the wizarding world. She's a romantic – she cares for me – I don't understand."

"Francesca might be a romantic, but she hasn't grown up in your world." Neal sighed, finishing with the last of his friend's injuries. "To us, a kiss is just a kiss. She likes you, but that doesn't mean she wants to marry you. She's _fifteen_, Aldon, and she's only just worked out that you return her feelings, though I honestly have no idea how she possibly could have missed it before. Now you're proposing marriage after what, thirty minutes? You're completely bonkers."

"Fifteen-year-olds in my world are at the appropriate age for a betrothal," Aldon muttered, his eyes flicking over the crowds at the Ball. "Especially women. Men can usually put it off to nineteen, twenty, sometimes later, but we marry young."

"Yeah, well, in my world, and Francesca's world, fifteen-year-olds are still figuring out what they want to do with their lives, worrying about failing their classes or what Masteries they should be aiming for, and dating." Neal shrugged. "My brother Graeme had four girlfriends, each lasting less than a month, when he was fifteen, and, let me tell you, he thought every one of them was his soulmate. Graeme's a bit of a player now, but I have to admit even he's never managed to get dumped in less than an hour – even his one-night stands are longer. All this to say, Aldon, even if she likes you, it's too much, far too soon. You terrified her."

Aldon paused, and something flickered across his eyes. Neal frowned, then smacked him on the shoulder – the one he had just healed. "What is it? Spit it out."

"Er," Aldon said, and Neal thought he sounded a little awkward, embarrassed. "I, er…"

Neal glared at him. He was pretty sure he was not going to like what came next. "You, what?"

"Think about the wording of my oath, Queenscove," Aldon snapped, suddenly crabby, which Neal knew to be one of Aldon's first defensive mechanisms. In event of stress or embarrassment, be an asshole. "_Openly and before witnesses, with no expectations_. _A request only with no bearing on my oath. _I _am_ a wizard, and I swore it on my own blood, and _do_ use your head."

It took a second for Neal to remember what Aldon had said, and then three deep breaths before Neal could speak without clobbering his friend over the head with the hilt of his sword. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You married her anyway."

"Yes, but she didn't marry _me_."

XXX

Francesca flew to her room at Grimmauld Place, kicking off her heels into a corner. She threw herself on her bed, pulling one of her pillows into her arms and bursting into proper tears. She wished she had one of her teddy bears.

She trusted him. She _trusted_ Aldon, and she thought he knew her, better than anyone, even John. She told Aldon almost everything, and she didn't even tell John everything. Lying to John was harder, but the two of them had _rules_, and neither of them wantonly rooted around in each other's minds. If one of them kept something hidden, the other tried not to go looking.

She had _told_ him – over and over again, that very night. If what they had was real, if the parts they played were real, then everything she had said was true. It was too early. No, he couldn't meet her parents. Her parents thought she was too young to be dating. She needed to finish a No-Maj degree before she could even consider something like marriage. She was fifteen, and she was too young, and it was far too early. She had _told_ him this, but did he listen?

The whole night had started terrifying, but she had committed to it for his sake, for the sake of what he and Archie and their British friends wanted to achieve. He became her ballast through that wretched hour when she had to stand by his side, bearing the looks and the hidden sneers, silently with an attitude of cheerful obliviousness. Aldon had said that she could at least enjoy watching his social suicide, but she hadn't enjoyed it in the least – it _hurt_ to watch people, some of whom she guessed he had deeply cared for once, say things that had to have hurt him, all because of something that wasn't really his fault. It had hurt to see his loss of status firsthand, to see what he must have been dealing with over the last several months, and it hurt even more that she was supposedly the cause for an even greater rejection.

Supposedly, or actually? She didn't know anymore. Things were all well and good if it wasn't real, because then Francesca didn't need to deal with the feelings of whether she was worth it, whether she was worth Aldon's kamikaze flight through Wizarding British Society tonight. When it wasn't real, she could easily tell herself that it was fiction, and Aldon had made his own choices – when it was real, she had to question. And seeing firsthand what he'd thrown into a fire because of her, she didn't know whether she was worth that.

It was an irony of ironies. Francesca loved romance novels, and what had happened tonight had come straight out of a romance novel. But Francesca wasn't a romance novel heroine, and Aldon wasn't a hero, and when everything happened in real life it was more horror than romance. There had been a moment, the moment when Aldon had first kissed her and she had reached up to kiss him back, where she had been so happy, and nervous and excited, because kissing her meant that he _wasn't_ gay and that maybe he even liked her the way she liked him. They had a few minutes, maybe even a half-hour, where Aldon had defended her to Lord Riddle, then he had made sure she had food in her hands and they had even bantered, a little, and Francesca had put off questions like _but what are we _to another day and another time. Her heart had beat so fast, and his arm around had been warm and steady. It was new, it was exciting, and then Lestrange happened and he was like a bucket of cold water dumped over her stupid head.

Duels of honour, over _her_ honour, only happened in storybooks. She liked them in books, where they were a wonderful plot device, but she _hated_ them when they were real. And it was all so _needless – _Aldon never asked Francesca how she felt about what was said, he had just _done_ it, and in all honesty, Francesca had heard worse. She wondered vaguely if either Lestrange or Aldon knew that he had chosen a racially charged epithet, or if that had been pure luck. She would be lucky, like that, but being compared to a monkey was old hat, for her. It was _boring_, even No-Majs used that comparison, usually when people who looked like her succeeded at something.

If Aldon only knew the litany of things she had been called at school. She giggled a bit, her voice thick with tears, snorting into her pillow. He would be fighting duels endlessly if he knew, worse than John. She didn't even like when John defended her – for all he said mildly _I'll just have a word with them,_ she knew perfectly well that words had turned into fists on more than one occasion, which was exactly why she tried to hide these things as much as possible from John. She could protect herself, and a little insult like being called a monkey, Francesca tried to let go. Words would only hurt her as much as she let them, she always told herself, and even if it was easier said than done, it helped.

The whole duel was terrifying, and it was only the Calming Draught, still running through her system, that had kept her from _completely_ losing her head and bawling right at the Ball. She hadn't watched; Aldon told her not to, so she had spent the entire time with her head buried in Tina's shoulder, and _listening_ to the duel was far worse than watching it.

Tina had sworn like a sailor, cursing the air blue around her. "He pulled out the _Killing Curse?_ As the first move? Holy—"

"He can't duel. Neither of them know how to duel." John had moaned, his voice somewhere between disgust and horror. "Why did he challenge someone to a duel when he _doesn't know how to duel?_"

"Honour," Will had added, his voice a little strained. "Honour is important."

"Will, if you ever challenge someone to a duel of honour over me, after you killed them, I would kill _you_." Tina paused. "And if you were stupid enough to _get_ _killed_ in a duel over me, I would find a way to summon you back just so I could kill you again."

John made a noise like agreement, and all three of them fell silent, watching. Francesca could hear the scrabble of desperate movement, the crackle and pop of things burning, the smell of smoke. She heard the first Torture Curse, heard John groan, but she didn't hear any commentary or screaming, so she assumed they hadn't landed. She had fought to keep from turning around and watching the duel herself, but Aldon had told her that he didn't want her to see it. There was a moment where Will sucked in a breath, but no one said anything, so Francesca didn't know what happened.

"It's done," John said suddenly, and Francesca could see the look on his face, the same one he wore at duelling competitions when he knew who the winner would be. "Risky move, but Aldon has it."

A second later, Francesca knew he was right. Lord Parkinson asked if Aldon wanted to kill Lestrange, and Francesca couldn't help herself – she pulled her face from the crook of Tina's neck, turning to face the arena.

The arena was on fire – three huge bonfires littered the floor, with smaller barriers of fire running through the arena. The floor was dirty with soot and debris and probably blood, and Aldon was on top of his cousin, his arm pressed against Lestrange's neck. His handsome clothes were ripped, and Lestrange's face was turning a disturbing shade of purple.

There had been a pregnant pause, and Francesca held her breath, waiting for Aldon's answer. He didn't need to kill Lestrange, and he wouldn't – the Aldon she knew wouldn't kill him, no matter what he had said, because he wasn't a murderer. And, sure enough, Aldon let him go, and Francesca had picked her way down to him, as soon as she could. He didn't look well, and she had been about to ask John to look at him for her.

And it was then that things _twisted_. There had been a moment, when Aldon had just looked at her, a strange light in his amber eyes, and then, while she watched, he morphed into a creature she didn't understand, and that she didn't _want_ to understand. One that didn't _listen _to her, one that had never listened to her, one that was willing to _play tricks_ on her. She didn't know what changed – she didn't know what made him try to bind her into a marriage ritual when she had _explicitly told him_, over and over in a dozen conversations that very night, _no_.

She sniffled, curled up in her bed, and the door to her room opened. It was John, and he held out a teddy bear.

"You didn't bring any of yours to Britain," he said by way of explanation, making eye contact with her. _Do you know how hard it is to find a teddy bear at this hour? Even in London. We had to hit the arcades and thank god Gerry is good at those crane games, else we would still be there._

Francesca snorted, reaching out for the bear. It was a light brown, fluffy, but a little cold and wet from the outdoors. A red ribbon circled its neck, tied in a very pretty bow. Francesca used a corner of her blanket to dry the poor thing off.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Francesca shook her head, but her eyes made contact with his – it wasn't that she didn't want to _share_ it, she just didn't know how to talk about it. _Mindscape? _

John sighed, shutting the door behind him, but Francesca knew that it wasn't a sigh of annoyance or frustration, or at least not at her. He was just tired and wrung out from the last few hours – the Ball hadn't been easy for him either, though Francesca knew from his mind that Gerry had taken care of most of the politicking. They had suggested that the Unity Ball was a good _start_, that change was good and that more change within Wizarding Britain could encourage a loosening of the sanctions, but it was hard making headway when so many people simply lacked basic education about economics and the international political landscape.

"Gerry?"

_In the kitchen, _John replied mentally, settling on the bed and tossing himself into her mindscape. He floated down to her battlements, where she was looking over her mental dominion. _He's_ _drinking tea and talking to Sirius. If Aldon dares to come and try to see you, which I don't think he will, I told Gerry to break his nose. Archie and Hermione went out to get you ice cream and cake._

_Ice cream and cake is for breakups. _Francesca sniffled a little, leading the way inside her mental sanctuary, to her warmest solar. She snapped her fingers, bringing the fire in the fireplace to life, and again for a tray of tea. _We didn't break up. We weren't even anything._

_Tell him that, Chess. _John sighed, flopping his mental avatar onto her chaise. _He's been in love with you almost since he met you. He wasn't creepy about it until today though, not that I could tell, or I would have headed it off earlier._

_He tried to trick me, John. _Francesca curled up in a corner of her sofa, snuggling the side of her face into the soft cushions. _He tried to trick me into marrying him. I don't understand. He was always so good at listening to me, for months and months, and he doesn't treat me any different because I don't have a wand, and he understands the ACD and what I want to do with the ACD. I thought he understood me. But tonight, he didn't listen to me, he didn't listen when I told him no, a million different ways. Why would he try to trick me, John?_

_Because he's a crazy son of a bitch who is in love with you. _John's eyes darkened, a scowl coming over his avatar's face. _He only saw what he wanted, not how it impacts you, and he tried to get it._

_But why would he want to marry me? _Francesca shook her head, mussing her hair against the cushions of her sofa, confused._ Or maybe – why now? He's not much older than me – only eighteen. Why would anyone want to make a choice like that so early? We even talked, before, about how we didn't want arranged marriages, and he mentioned that his friends married early but he never – I thought he was different. And I said no, John!_

She made a motion with her head towards the large screen television, bringing up her memories of the night. From the first conversation they had had that night, whenever he said anything about them, she had said no. She had _said_ she was too young, that it was too early. She had said she had things she needed to do first, she had said her parents didn't want her dating. What else was she supposed to have said? How else could she have explained it to him_?_

_You couldn't have said anything more_, John replied, watching the interplay of memories. Moments, flashes, here and there, pieces of that uncomfortable hour when everyone had stared at her and found her wanting. _Aldon didn't want to hear it. You can do better than him, Chess. He doesn't respect your boundaries – I don't think he knows what boundaries are. And that shit with the proposal, trying to bind you in a marriage with him? That's not cool, and you know it._

Francesca sniffled a little, reaching for the throw tossed over the back of her chair. _Yeah. I know. I – I don't want to see him again while I'm here, John._

_All your meetings with Blake & Associates are done though, right? You had a bunch of meetings before Christmas. _

_Yeah. Just…_ Francesca tilted her head, thinking about it, pulling her throw over her mental avatar. A lot of these little gestures didn't _matter, _since she was in her mindscape and not in real life, but they were comforting, and she liked comfort in her mindscape. _Well, I guess he's worked out the proto-runes, so most of our ACD discussions will have to be with the wider group now anyway, on fixing magical frequency and so on. We don't have to talk one-on-one anymore._

_I think that's probably for the best. _John seemed to think for a minute, before he held out his arms. _Need a hug?_

_Yeah_. Francesca sniffled, standing up and tugging her blanket over to where John was sprawled out on the chaise in her mindscape. _Sorry you couldn't have your romantic night with Gerry._

_Don't worry about it, monster. There'll be other romantic nights, and I'll still punch Aldon out for you if I get a chance._

XXX

Aldon was drunk.

It turned out that there was a whole _world_ of alcohol did not make him feel sick. He had discovered this almost purely by chance – he had Flooed out of the Ministry of Magic and had been planning on just Apparating home, the better to mope in his bedroom. His mother didn't have a Floo entrance in her penthouse, so it didn't matter overmuch where he Flooed, as long as it was within his Apparation distance. It was pure chance, or perhaps convenience, which had led him to Flooing into the Leaky Cauldron.

The bar was quiet that night. A group of wizards were playing cards at a back table, their robes sodden and dirty from the cold rain outside, and one or two middle-aged wizards were at the bar, chatting to the old barkeep, Tom, as he polished glasses. Aldon looked behind the bar for a second, spotting the bright and colourful bottles lining the shelves. Breathing in, he caught the scent of smoke, Butterbeer, a hint of stronger liquor, all mixed with the hearty scent of British pub fare: shepherd's pie, fish and chips, bangers and mash. He looked at the bar, at the empty row of seats along one end.

He didn't feel sick, breathing in the scent of liquor. It wasn't whisky, but it was still alcohol, and he had no trouble being _in_ a pub. He never had, come to think of it – even at Ed's bachelor party, held at a pub farther within Diagon Alley, he had never had any problems simply being in a pub. He hadn't really thought about it before, because every time he caught the scent of whisky, he was light-headed, nauseated, with a visceral feeling of _wrongness_ that penetrated through his stomach.

But he didn't have that reaction to any other liquor. And he wanted a drink. In the six months, through his possession, his disownment, through Ed and Alice's rejection and so much more, he had never wanted a drink more than he wanted one now.

He hesitated, but Ed wouldn't be coming to stop him.

No one would be coming to stop him.

He took a seat at the bar.

It took a minute or two before a bartender, a woman with wispy blonde hair that he thought he recognized from the last time he had eaten at the Leaky Cauldron, came over to him. She was tucking a pad of paper and pens into the apron at her front.

"What can I get you, Mr. Blake?" Her eyes were thoughtful as she took him in – these clothes were fit for nothing but the trash bin, now. His trousers were burned slightly, covered in soot, and both his shirt and waistcoat were ripped. He was still decent, but these clothes could not be saved.

"What liquor do you have that's not Butterbeer, wine, or whiskey?" He didn't feel like Butterbeer, which was too weak to get him drunk quickly, wine only reminded him of the night that he had just had, and whiskey, well, he still couldn't think about whiskey.

"Gigglewater?"

"I don't want to laugh."

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Bad night?"

"The love of my life rejected my proposal. I'd say so." Aldon shrugged, not wanting to get into more details, and his core itched abominably. He ignored it. "What liquor do you have?"

"Brandy? Gin? Mead? Rum? Sherry?" The bartender's eyebrows were raised and she spread her hands in front of her, almost a little helpless. "Sake? Scotch? Tequila? Vodka? Name it, we probably have it."

"What will get me drunk the fastest?" Aldon frowned at the wall of drinks behind her. He hadn't heard of half the things she had named.

"Vodka or tequila would get you drunk pretty quick."

"Give me one of those then."

The bartender hesitated for a minute, eyeing him, then she turned around to grab two tiny glasses, much smaller than any that Aldon had seen before. She pulled a clear bottle off the shelf, filling both of the tiny glasses, then handed them to him.

It was such a small amount of liquid, but he picked one up and threw it back anyway. Then he nearly choked – it was _strong_, whatever it was, and it burned the entire way down. But the taste was clear, icy, somehow reminding him of frozen winter. That was good, because he felt much the same.

"Vodka. Forty proof, Mr. Blake." The bartender tilted her head in concern. "Are you sure…?"

"Very sure," Aldon coughed, then he took the other shot and threw it back as well. Conversely, the shots were warming – as cold and bitter as they tasted, once they hit his belly, they burned. They lit a fire inside his centre, thawing him out, smoothing his sharp, jagged feelings into something easier, something less painful for him to manage. When he was drunk, he felt good. When he was drunk, he could cope, and everything was so much easier for him when he had a drink in hand.

He had to talk to Francesca. He had to explain himself to her – he had to explain how deeply he loved her, and he had to explain that this was the only way they had for them to have a future in Wizarding Britain, to avoid the Marriage Law. He had to make her understand what he was intending, and make it clear that she didn't necessarily have to answer him right now. The door was open, now, and it was an opportunity he had had to take for them. She would understand – she had to understand.

She had kissed him. That meant she cared for him, and he would take care of the rest. As long as she cared for him, he would bring down the skies for her. Whatever she wanted, he would find a way to get it. He would take over Rosier Place, his rightful manor, come hell or high water; he would win back his position in Society, or something very much like it, along with the Rosier Investment Trust. The wealth, the money, the power – he would win them all back, just so that he could shower her with everything she deserved and more. And he was sworn to her now, and just as he had promised, everything he ever had would be hers. He would defend her, protect her; he would see that she wanted for nothing her entire life.

He just had to explain this all to her, make her understand. He would tell her all the oldest wizarding legends, of wizard-knights sworn to their ladies, and she would understand. She was a romantic. She loved romantic stories, so she had to understand. She would be delighted, even, to have her romantic fantasies come to life.

It was with the courage of five shots of vodka that he Flooed into Grimmauld Place. Floo, because he wasn't entirely sure he would be able to Apparate in his current condition without Splinching himself. He had just enough time to recognize the Lord Black, sitting at the kitchen table across from Gerhardt Riemann, Kowalski's boyfriend, before Riemann's fist caught him across the nose.

Aldon gasped, the starburst of pain across his face penetrating even his state of determined inebriation. He reached his hand to his face, and it came away with blood. More bleeding. Fantastic.

"John asked me to do that, if you showed up." Riemann's voice was mild.

"And you listened to him?" Aldon's voice was nasal, and he realized he couldn't breathe through his nose anymore. He glared at Riemann. "I need to talk to Francesca. I need to explain things to her, I need to make her understand, I need to—"

"You need do nothing, not in that condition," Riemann replied coolly in his accented English, crossing his arms over his chest. He was leaner than John was, but a few inches taller, and while Aldon vaguely recalled that he had a desk job, working in the German Ministry for Magic, he certainly seemed to be very fit. "You are drunk, and you reek of alcohol. How many drinks have you had?"

"None of your business," Aldon snapped, annoyed, considering his chances at making it through the door before either Riemann or the Lord Black stopped him. He knew where Francesca's room was, but he wasn't feeling entirely steady. He could probably make it out of the kitchen, he thought. There was a tickle on his upper lip, and he wiped away it, his hand coming away with blood. "I need to talk to Francesca."

"She won't be impressed that you smell like stale drink, though." The Lord Black was uncorking a vial, pouring it into a glass and filling it with water. "You better take a breath mint potion, just to be sure. You want to put your best foot forward, don't you?"

Aldon thought for a moment, but the Lord Black made quite a lot of sense. He couldn't remember what Francesca thought about alcohol, and it would probably be better for him not to reek of it. He also probably smelled from the Leaky Cauldron, and that was not likely to please her. A breath mint potion was a good idea, especially if he was lucky and more kissing was involved. He nodded sagely, reaching for the glass with one blood-stained hand.

"The whole thing, Aldon," the Lord Black chided, but Aldon knew how potions worked when they were watered down. Why had Lord Black watered down the breath mint potion, anyway? Those weren't potions that needed watering normally, and didn't they usually come in peppermint green?

A second later, he swore, clutching his head as the Sobriety potion kicked in. He had a _blinding_ headache now, and he could feel a steady ache in his nose. Riemann had to have _broken_ it or something, and he could feel the bruises forming under his eyes. And his nose was dripping. He swore again, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief and holding it to his nose.

"Back to our senses, are we?" The Lord Black had a hint of humour to his voice, though his expression was serious.

Aldon scowled, squinting. The light hurt his eyes, stabbing pains into the back of his head, meshing poorly with the sharper pain of his nose. "Where is Francesca?"

"In her room, being comforted by John, while Archie and Hermione fetch ice cream and cake. The latter is taking considerable time because the shops are mostly closed at this hour." Riemann's face, on the contrary, showed nothing but cold disapproval, which Aldon ignored. He didn't know Riemann, and Riemann wasn't British, so he couldn't possibly understand. And what was the point of telling him about ice cream and cake right now? He couldn't care less what Archie and Hermione were doing.

Aldon was here now. Perhaps he needed a little liquid courage to help him get here, but he was here. "I still need to talk to her."

"And I think you've done enough damage for one night, don't you?" Riemann's arms were crossed over his chest, and he stood between Aldon and the door out of the kitchen. "Go home, Blake."

Aldon glared, his jaw tightening. _Damage?_ He had done a lot in one night, but he wouldn't call it _damage_. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face, saw the red blossom on it, and pressed it against his nose again. At this rate, he was the one who was _damaged_. "There are things I need to explain to her. And who are you to stop me? What right do you have to interfere?"

"Gerhardt, maybe it would be better for me to talk with Aldon," the Lord Black interceded, motioning to the door with his head. "Alone. Would you mind? There's a library where I'm sure you'll find something to interest you, or there are two sitting rooms. Make yourself at home."

Riemann looked between Aldon and the Lord Black, then he nodded, though he looked none too pleased about it. "I think I will go retrieve a book, then, and read on the stairs. John would not like me to leave my post, particularly when Blake is _here_."

"And you always listen to what he says?" Aldon asked, trying to infuse his words with mockery. He wasn't as successful in the venture as he normally was – his voice was unusually nasal, and his head hurt. His _face_ hurt, and he still had a handkerchief held to his nose.

Riemann looked him over, unperturbed. "I try." He looked back over at the Lord Black. "Thank you for a pleasant conversation, Sirius. I'll be hovering on the stairs, should you need someone to help you in taking out the trash."

His blue eyes skimmed over Aldon, his meaning clear, and then he disappeared. Aldon made an aborted movement to go after him, considering a potential opening before Riemann had his book, but the Lord Black caught him by the arm before he could take it more than a step.

"Sit down, Aldon," he said, his tone making clear that this was not a choice. He pushed Aldon into the seat vacated by Riemann, across from him, and pulled out his wand. Aldon tensed, reaching for his wand himself, but the Lord Black only muttered, "_Episkey_."

It wasn't a gentle healing spelling, and Aldon gasped again as he felt the bones in his nose grinding, shifting back into their proper shape. His nasal passages were suddenly clear, and he could breathe properly, though he could still feel the ache on his face. He blew his nose, a wad of blood and mucus coming out onto his handkerchief, but at least his nose wasn't bleeding anymore. He folded the bit of cloth, though he wasn't sure it was salvageable, and tucked it in his pocket.

"Archie is better than I am at this – he has a more delicate touch," the Lord Black said, and while his voice wasn't _warm_, neither was it especially angry. He waved his hand once more, and Aldon felt the familiar sensation of a basic cleaning charm brushing across his face and hands. "I don't know how to take care of the swelling or bruising either, so you'll have to wait for him to get home to Heal that. In the Auror Training Academy, they only taught us stop-gaps. First aid, as Archie would call it."

Aldon reached up, checking his nose, his face. His nose was the right shape, and he couldn't feel any dried blood, or worse. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. "I – thank you, Lord Black."

"Just Sirius, Aldon. I don't stand on ceremony, and neither should you." The Lord Black sighed. It was something that he had told Aldon nearly every time he had seen him, but calling the Lord Black by name had always felt too strange, uncomfortable, for Aldon. Even as a noble, he had only been of the Book of Copper, and the Lord Black was a generation his elder. He could no more call the Lord Black _Sirius_ than he could call the Lord Parkinson _Cassius_. The Lord Black pushed Riemann's mug to one side, summoning a new one for Aldon. "I want to talk to you about what happened tonight, Aldon. Your actions tonight were, collectively, the stupidest thing I have ever seen in my entire life, and I worked as an Auror for a decade."

Aldon glared at him but didn't comment. The Lord Black could think whatever he wanted – even if he had been the last generation's bad boy, even if he had been thrown out of the family manor for a brief period, the Lord Black had always been a pureblood, had always been _the Heir Black_ even before he became _the Lord Black_. Aldon had to do as he did, because if he hadn't, he would only have been inviting more insults later. Duelling made a point, and the proposal afterwards gave him a chance at the future he wanted, the future that he could not have unless he _did _something about it. "I still need to talk to Francesca. I need to explain some things to her."

"Like what?" The Lord Black raised an eyebrow, pouring Aldon a mug of tea from the pot sitting on the table. "An explanation why you tried to trap her into marriage with you?"

Aldon frowned, taken aback, reaching out slowly for the mug of tea and wrapping his hands around it. "Trap? I didn't try to _trap _her. She didn't have to respond. It's right there in the wording of the oaths – _without reservation, a request only with no bearing._"

"And had she said yes, it would have formed a binding marriage on the spot, from which there would have been no divorce. The old rituals lead to a marriage even more restrictive than our current laws." The Lord Black's stormy grey eyes were serious, but his voice was even and calm. "Aldon, she didn't grow up as a witch – you knew that. You cannot expect her to know the same things that a pureblood noble girl would have been taught as a child. You _cannot_ trust that she knows the same things that you do, and she's _fifteen years old_."

"You both say that – you and Neal." Aldon stared into his cup of tea, scowling, but it gave him no answers. His head hurt, though not as badly as it did five minutes ago. "Fifteen is a perfectly appropriate time for a betrothal agreement. Most noble girls are betrothed around that age. And I don't believe in divorce. I also don't believe in dating."

The Lord Black sighed, bringing one hand up to his forehead. There was a second of silence, in which Aldon guessed that the Lord Black was picking his words. "First of all, Aldon, Francesca is not a noble girl. She is an American Muggleborn. Second, she _does_ believe in divorce – obviously, it isn't considered an ideal outcome, but it is an accepted reality in Muggle Britain and both Muggle and Wizarding America. Some half of marriages end in divorce in America."

Aldon stared at him, his lip curling in disapproval. "But the vows – the oaths—"

"Sometimes it is better for a bad marriage to end, and for people to go their separate ways, than it is for two people to keep struggling." The Lord Black tilted his head, thoughtful. "It isn't that it doesn't happen here, Aldon – you can name as many families as I where the resident Lord has set his Lady up in a separate household, sometimes even sending her abroad. Or families where the wife runs away and disappears. And those are the good cases, Aldon – those don't include bad marriages where two people stay together because Society demands it, or where one party abuses the other."

Aldon's eyes narrowed, and he made a sharp motion to get up. He wasn't going to listen to this. "I would _never_ hurt her, Lord Black. Never."

"Sit _down, _Aldon. I never said you would." The Lord Black shook his head, waving for Aldon to sit back down, and his voice brooked no argument. "I don't think you would, or not intentionally so. I got sidetracked. My point is, Francesca comes from a very different culture – even if she enjoys reading books that endorse traditional ideals of romance, and even if she dreams about having a prince or knight come sweep her off her feet, she is still a very modern girl. She _expects_ to date for some years before she marries. She _expects _to marry, oh, probably no earlier than her early twenties, judging by what Hermione considers normal. She _expects_ to be able to get a divorce, if things go badly. You cannot treat her the way you would someone from our background, Aldon. Can you not see how, with those expectations, finding out that you proposed to her in a way that would have bound her into a permanent marriage after only having known her a short time would be seen as a trap? You did to as much to her as some proponents of the Marriage Law would like to do to _you_."

Aldon flinched, but his mouth firmed in denial. He didn't. He hadn't. And it wasn't like that, because he loved her. That was the difference – he loved her, and she cared for him, so theirs would be a love marriage. But he supposed that, if one omitted certain key facts – their months of late-night talks over communication orb, their mutual feelings for each other, their blood-statuses, the impact of the Marriage Law on their futures – it could perhaps be taken in that light.

"I – I appreciate that perhaps I should have prepared her better." The words twisted out of his mouth, reluctant, as he looked up from his mug. "But she didn't have to respond, and she didn't. And had she, I would have taken care of her, Lord Black – I would have treated her better than anyone else in the world. And with my blood-status – with the Marriage Law – it's our only chance."

"It's your only chance _here_, and only until we can get the Marriage Law repealed – unless you have given up already on having the law repealed?" The Lord Black raised his eyebrow, skeptical. "Continue justifying yourself, Aldon, but your excuses are thin. I am telling you now that, regardless of how you think she _should_ feel about it, she very much feels like you attempted to trap her. You betrayed her trust in you – she never thought that _you _would try to trick her."

Aldon's eyes fell back down to the table. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if there was anything to say to that. He still needed to talk to her, to explain himself, but if that was truly how she felt, then he would have to think much more carefully about how to approach it. Perhaps he should withdraw for the evening, think through what he needed to tell her and how he would go about doing it.

"Did you really do it for those reasons, Aldon? Because you loved her, and because you saw it as your only chance with the Marriage Law passed?" The Lord Black was expressionless, his voice devoid of any inflection, but his words stood on their own. "Or is it also that, now that you have publicly sworn yourself to her, you are legally considered to be married to her and no one can attempt to force _you_ into a marriage?"

"No. Absolutely not," Aldon snapped, his head jerking back up, but his core wavered, irritated, because that _had _been in his mind tonight. His behaviour tonight _had _been intended to dissuade any marriage proposals, to paint himself as such an unsuitable marriage partner that no one would dare attempt to use the Marriage Law to trap _him _in a marriage he did not want.

Exactly what the Lord Black said he had tried to do to Francesca. But his case was different, because he loved her. He loved her more than he thought he had ever loved anyone before.

He had loved Ed, but he had swallowed his feelings, buried them where they wouldn't hurt him, barely admitting those feelings to himself. It was too obvious, early on, that his feelings for Ed would come to nothing, so Aldon hadn't let himself care as much as he would have otherwise. Ed was his first friend, his oldest friend, his best friend, but he was never anything more than that, and he never would be. Aldon had never loved Harriett Potter either, as much as he told himself otherwise at the time. Harriett hadn't made him feel the things that Francesca made him feel – Harriett had always been capable of taking care of herself, and Aldon would never have even considered fighting a duel on her behalf. Anything he had told himself in the process had only been his justification for prying into her affairs, for trying to stay close to her when he was nothing to her, nothing next to her. That final night, he certainly had not had any problem sending her off on her own, after springing her from the wards.

He would never have done that with Francesca. He would have followed Francesca to the ends of the earth, throwing himself between her and every possible danger.

Aldon had probably, to some extent, fallen in love with Francesca Lam from the moment he first set eyes on her_. _The attraction he had had from those first moments turned, later, into something deeper: she wasn't just beautiful, she was smart, and her inventions were fascinating, intellectually stimulating, utterly brilliant. A hundred conversations later, and his feelings had deepened into something even more: as sweet and sensitive as she could be, she was also _like him_. Francesca Lam, just like Aldon Blake Rosier, _raged_ at the world; she wanted to tear it down and remake it in her own image, turn it into a place where she could _be_. Francesca was everything he could have ever wanted for himself, if he had known what to want for himself before.

He had dwelled on thoughts of her for months. She intruded when he picked out what clothes to wear each morning, when he rode the Muggle Underground to work, when he sat down in his ergonomic desk chair and opened his laptop to work on the ACD. Of course, he had to think about her when he interacted with her invention, but it was more than that – every time he looked at his ACD, it was almost as if he felt her there with him, whispering in his ear, her small hands on his as she pointed out bits and pieces of the circuit, her giggles light and soft and not at all hurtful when he said something particularly ignorant. He had come to look forward to their stolen minutes, their lost hours, talking together late at night, sharing parts of themselves that hadn't been shown to anyone else.

In his dreams, she would be there with him – she would be beside him while they worked on her ACD together, she would be curled up beside him while they talked in bed, her head pillowed softly against his shoulder. That was the future he wanted for himself, and he would do _much_ to have it.

And she had kissed him. She wouldn't have spent hours on communication orb, talking about everything under the sun with him, if she hadn't cared for him. They had something there, Aldon knew it. Perhaps he had made a mistake, but there was something there between them, and Aldon would fix it. He had to fix it.

"Well," the Lord Black said, a touch ironic, as if Aldon's silence despite his vehement denial had settled the matter. "I'm sure that, now that the rush has worn off, you'd like to be released from your oaths. Fortunately for you, since she didn't accept, that is still possible. Francesca is generally very reasonable – I'm sure we can walk her through releasing you from your vows before she goes back to school. But not tonight, Aldon. I'll explain it to her tomorrow—"

"No." Aldon's voice was quiet, a surprise almost to himself. "No, I don't want to be released from my vows."

The Lord Black blinked, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"I don't want to be released from my vows." Aldon took a deep breath, feeling the resolve settle in him. She had cared for him, and he loved her. He would fix this, and he would win her over again, and he had sworn those oaths exactly as he had meant them. _Before witnesses, and with no expectations. A request only with no bearing on my oath. _He wouldn't come back, not even a day later, asking her to release him from them because she had rejected him. He did not want to be that sort of person, and _Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier_ would not be that sort of person. "What will you require from me, for your silence on this matter?"

The Lord Black's eyebrows were raised, both of them, giving him a wide-eyed look. "You… don't want to be released from your oath."

"No, sir." Aldon hesitated, thinking over what he could offer. He didn't have much money, not by what the Blacks had, but he could still afford to pay something. It would eat into what he had, but it wasn't as if he used a lot of his money regularly, not with Christie covering all his living expenses. But what about other things? There were a dozen courting gifts that he could send to Francesca in America, and he needed to plan for the future as well. He would win back his position in society – his status, his wealth, his power. It could be years before his father died, but a hostile takeover of the Rosier Investment Trust was not wholly out of the question. No, money wouldn't work, he had too many plans that required funding, and anything he didn't spend needed to be set aside for the future.

He didn't have enough influence anymore to promise to throw his weight at anything, particularly after a night spent setting his own reputation on fire. He still had a few connections, but they couldn't publicly do anything to assist him – they were only useful for gathering information. He could promise the Lord Black information, but that was always a tricky gamble for a Lord, since Lord Black had no idea what information Aldon might have. And all Aldon had was bits and pieces presently, not a full picture, nothing _useful._

Lord Black watched him, curious, silent as Aldon considered his options.

"I'm willing to swear a Vow of Undisclosed Debt," Aldon said finally, lifting his cold tea to wet his dry lips. It wasn't an offer he had made lightly. Even if, by the general rules of how debts worked, the Lord Black would only be able to exceed the parameters of the favour he had granted Aldon, in this case his silence, by so much, it was still a risk. "Please, Lord Black."

There was a long moment of silence as the Lord Black considered it, and then he shook his head. "No need. I'll be silent, for now, and have no fear that Archie will tell her anything either – he doesn't know the old rituals, and while he knows what would have happened if Francesca had accepted, he doesn't know what _did _happen. But she will find out eventually, Aldon, and she won't be happy about it."

Aldon nodded, taking a deep breath and reformulating his plans. He shouldn't see her tonight: she was too much in shock, too frightened, it was too late to be appropriate, and now Aldon had to plan out what, exactly, he should tell her about what had happened, what lies might be the most suitable and palatable to her. He would reach out to her tomorrow and apologize for frightening her, and with luck, she wouldn't realize what his vows meant until years after it mattered. "Thank you, Lord Black. I – I think I will be going now. Plans to make."

"I somehow don't think your plans will go as successfully as you think they will, but fine." The Lord Black sighed, standing. "I'll walk you to the door. You can come to me at any time, Aldon. And do call me Sirius."

Christie was already asleep when Aldon let himself into her penthouse, and Aldon thanked the world for small mercies. At least he didn't have to explain himself, or what had happened, to her, or at least he could leave it until the morning when he, no doubt, would be on the front page of the _Daily Prophet _again. And he could plan his next steps tomorrow, when he had a night of sleep and a clearer head.

XXX

"Your son, Evan, is a dumbass." Lina stared out at the duelling arena, still aflame, as Evan's dumbass of a son knelt at the feet of a Muggleborn girl and professed his love for her. Aldon was so much like Evan – he looked like Evan, of course, a fact that had long disguised the circumstances of his birth, but it went so much farther than that. Aldon had also inherited many of Evan's traits: a calculating mind, a talent for business and politics, a certain ruthlessness. A taste for alcohol, though he had regrettably not inherited Evan's ability to drink copious amounts of liquor and show no sign of it whatsoever. A propensity for falling in love with beautiful Muggleborns, if that was a heritable characteristic.

Watching him grow up, Lina knew well that Aldon had also inherited many things from his mother, Christina Blake, far beyond his unusual gift. His sharp intelligence could only have come from her, because while Evan was clever, Christie was far more intelligent than Evan could ever hope to be. She also thought that Aldon's more academic inclinations had come from Christie – certainly, neither the Evan Rosier Lina had known at school, nor the one that she had come to know over twenty years of marriage, had ever had any interest in the theoretical.

"Eveline, he is your son, too," her husband replied tightly, keeping his voice quiet, breathing heavily through his nose. She glanced over at him, sidelong – his expression was frozen, a rictus of uncaring hiding the abject terror he had felt over the last fifteen minutes of duelling. Lina had read it, instead, in his tensed shoulders, which were only now starting to relax. Evan Rosier was grateful beyond words that, minimal duelling experience or not, his only child had made it out alive.

Lina looked back over the duelling arena, where the Muggleborn girl had now thrown a runic fire spell at her adopted almost-son. Aldon was fine, if only because his new friend, the young Lord Queenscove, had gotten involved and countered the spell with one of his own. Aldon was a complete and utter dumbass.

Still. Lina twisted the heavy steel ring on her left hand thoughtfully – not a marriage band, though she pretended like it was in Wizarding Britain. Over the last hour, Aldon had challenged the Lestrange Heir to a formal duel of honour, held his ground through the negotiation of seconds, and run the gauntlet of a duel to the death. She almost smiled, remembering the moment in which the boy she had helped to raise drew his ritual knife and invoked blood magic to light the arena on fire. It was exactly the kind of thing his namesake would have done, and for a single, nostalgic second, Lina had seen a flash of her old partner-in-crime, sandy blonde hair flying as blood dripped and fire ripped across the floor.

"Yes, I suppose he is, isn't he?" she replied, her voice infused with surprise, and something like pride. She had never wanted a husband, let alone a child, and Lina Avery, born Eveline Avery and now known in Wizarding Britain as Eveline Rosier, would have won every distant mother award in the universe. But she could not regret what had become of her life. She didn't regret Aldon, not if _these_ were the decisions he made. "He certainly didn't get his balls from either you or Christie."

Throwing himself into a duel for which he was ill-prepared, resorting to blood magic, and somehow staying alive when he should, by all rights, be dead – that was Lina Avery, all over, before she had learned caution. The part where he knelt in a room full of the most powerful people in Wizarding Britain, a hard, blazing look on his face as he defied everything that had been expected of him, as he somehow took something that the last half century of politics had turned disgusting and made it look like a dreamy romantic fantasy, well, that was perhaps even more wildly courageous than anything Lina had ever done.

Lina, after all, had run. She had run, and for years she had run, torn between her duty, her family's expectations, and her own desires. She had run until the day when she, almost thirty-four years old, had slammed into a certain Evan Rosier, deeply in love with a Muggleborn woman, who needed someone to hide his affair from public view.

A marriage in name only, he had promised her. Something that would protect Lina's status in Wizarding Britain and maintain her family's honour; something that would let her conceal the fact that she had never had any interest in either men or women, that the very idea of sex repulsed her, that she would rather die than conceive, carry or bear a child. And Evan had even sweetened the deal for her, providing the seed money for her beloved company in France, which now turned a very nice profit for them both.

"Eveline…" Evan ground out. It was a risk, having this conversation in public, but they were careful. Lina had cast_ Muffliato_ on everyone within ten feet of them. Paranoia was also something that Aldon had probably inherited from her rather than either Evan or Christie, come to think of it. "You could show some concern for our son."

"Had he died, he would have deserved it," Lina replied, purposely flippant, her eyes skimming the people around them. No one was listening to them – they were the Rosiers, still climbing up from their fall into disgrace. A public disownment only went so far. "He had good chances from the beginning, Evan – he wanted to win more than Lestrange wanted to fight. At the level of duelling they both displayed, desperation is often the overriding factor for success."

Evan sighed. Lina had no idea why Evan was surprised at her attitude. It wasn't as if Lina had ever been a mother to Aldon. She had only played the role, now and then when Aldon was growing up, and she found that she liked the boy quite a lot better as a disowned adult than she ever had when he was her supposed child. She had always assumed that Aldon would simply follow the easy path that Evan and Christie had laid out for him, and she was rather pleasantly surprised to find that Aldon had his own ideas.

"Given the current circumstances, however…" Lina crooned, thoughtful, one hand checking for her wands, more out of habit than anything else. They were all she had carried tonight, and she felt naked. "As well as his performance went tonight, he will need additional training if he hopes to survive. I'll speak to someone about it, Evan."

Evan shut his eyes, a greater sign of his relief and gratitude than Lina had been expecting. She huffed a small, humourless laugh.

"Don't thank me. He certainly won't." Lina looked back out over the makeshift arena, where both Aldon and his prospective bride had disappeared, and where others had finally succeeded at wiping out the fires. Convenient, that Aldon and the girl were gone – it was one less thing for Lina to keep track.

"If I don't survive tonight…" Evan sighed again, a long breath of nervousness and worry. The plan tonight was simple: the Unity Ball would be attacked, and the SOW Party would save the day. Lord Riddle would capture the terrorist, containing the threat, and stability would be restored. Huzzah. "Take care of my family, Eveline. Both Aldon and Christie."

Lina huffed another humourless laugh. "Sentimentality," she said, her tone demonstrating exactly what she thought of that. Evan had a shit post anyway, guarding an emergency stairwell that had no prospect of glory and even less prospect of battle, so his death was unlikely. Nevertheless, there was a pointed pause, and she could feel Evan's glare on her. It was only a minute before she sighed as well, resigned, giving into his wordless demand. "I swore I would, Evan. I keep my vows."

She didn't look at him, instead scanning the ballroom, more than thirty years of active military, paramilitary and quasi-military service informing what she saw. The biggest weaknesses, and the points where Lord Riddle had stationed his strongest and most loyal wizards, would be the Floo Room and the public entrance into Muggle London – those were the only entrances that wouldn't severely bottleneck an attacking force. Lord Malfoy, along with Lord Parkinson, Severus Snape and a number of Aurors had the honour of guarding the public entrance from Muggle London, and Lina spotted Lord Dumbledore near that entrance as well. Glancing over at the Floo Room, she saw Augustus Rookwood, with the Selwyns and a few more Aurors.

She frowned in the direction of the Floo Room. There weren't enough people there. The Floo Room was a primary weak point, and it needed more than the dozen or so people than it had. Even with Professor Minerva McGonagall, a powerful witch and the Lady Ross, hovering nearby, it wasn't enough. They hadn't brought enough Aurors, and too many of them, like Evan, were stationed on minor entrances and exits of no importance, where they couldn't steal any glory in battle. Shit.

"Evan," she murmured, voice tight as she scanned the room. She could have sworn that Evan had said the Lestranges were supposed to be on the Floo Room too. The Lestranges, and more of their crowd. "Remind me who was supposed to be guarding the Floo Room, again?"

"Rookwood, Lord Selwyn, Heir Selwyn, and the Lestranges – all three of Bellatrix, Rabastan, and Rodolphus. A third of the Aurors." Her husband's voice was stiff, catching something off in her cool, even voice. "Augustus was in charge – Lord Riddle believed his close connections with the Lestranges and the Selwyns both would lead them to cooperate."

"So where are the Lestranges?" She was already drawing her wand – _not _the one she used as Eveline Rosier, but short, dark one she preferred as herself. She scanned the room, searching for a wild mane of black curls – where Bellatrix was, she hoped that Rodolphus and Rabastan had followed. She caught sight of the woman close to the lifts, deeper into the bowels of the Ministry, and she swore.

It wouldn't have been unusual to anyone else, but Lina could see an attack formation from a mile away. There were too many people there, clumping, and as she watched, the doors to the lifts opened, silent from across the room, and another dozen people filtered out. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, and Lord Riddle really should have paid her, or someone _like_ her, to conduct a full security analysis in advance of the Ball. He couldn't have, of course, because Eveline Rosier was supposed to be a good wife and mother. _Eveline Rosier_, depending on who one asked, merely vacationed in France for most of the year, home only when her son was home, or she assisted her husband with his business interests abroad.

It was _Lina Avery_ who ran Blackthorn, her and Newman's security firm in Toulouse. It was _Lina Avery _who earned her living making assault and defensive plans. It was _Lina Avery, _heavy steel ring on her finger and tattoos down her spine, who was the Stormwing.

"We've been betrayed," she said, keeping her voice calm and casting her eyes over the situation anew, preparing to move. "The Lestranges – they're part of the terrorist organization. They hid troops in the lower levels of the Ministry, before the Ball. They're going to hit us from within, probably while more troops hit us from the Floo Room, sandwiching us in between. You must warn—"

A massive _boom_ rocked the building, and Lina cursed again, her feet automatically widening into a more secure stance while Evan staggered.

Too late – it was too late, and the Floo Room exploded outwards. Stone and mortar flew everywhere, and Lina Avery caught her first sight of Wizarding Britain's terrorist threat – a young man, only Aldon's age, with a strong jaw and cold, pitiless eyes. Augustus Rookwood went down, his son leaping over him with a terrible look of fury on his face, and the Lady Ross' wand was out. Debris rose the air, arrowing back at the attackers like a storm of blunt, angry Bludgers.

"Stay here," she snapped at her husband, raising her voice over the din as people started screaming. He was pale, his hand shaking as he drew his wand. "Get your back to the wall and keep it there. Don't leave your position, and do try to survive. Aldon can't cope with claiming the title tonight, and that's even if he isn't already drunk somewhere. Your son is still a dumbass, but he'll do something even more intransigently stupid if he feels the wards snap to him tonight."

Evan swallowed thickly, nodding as he retreated two steps, putting his back against the wall as instructed, and Lina proceeded to ignore him. The cluster of witches and wizards with the Lestranges, near the lifts, were smashing into the unprepared crowd from the other side, and Lord Malfoy and the group near the Muggle entrance had broken their formation. Half of them moved to engage with the Lestranges, while the other half headed to reinforce the Floo Room.

"Fuck. Fucking untrained troops. Aurors aren't trained for this shit. We need to hold the Muggle entrance." She was already forming the runes for a blasting spell in her mind, firing them off into points around the Muggle doors. She needed to open the doors larger, make a bigger exit, giving people a way to get _out_. "I have to go."

"Be safe, Eveline." Evan took a deep breath, bracing himself against the wall, his wand up. "Our son needs you, Christie needs you. _I_ need you."

"I've fought my way out of worse," Lina replied, dismissive, and she plunged into the fray.

XXX

_ANs: My favourite beta-reader comment on this chapter was "oh no" followed approximately one paragraph later by "oh very no." Thanks, meek, as always for your exceedingly helpful beta! And also, congratulations to graveexcitement who was quite right with his theory. Extra thank yous this time to mercuryandglass, without whom Chinese names would literally all be awful, and to SHL for the useful information on highly questionable and unethical studies on invoking aversion reflexes in alcoholics (i.e. Aldon can't drink whisky but he can drink literally anything else still). Leave me a review, even if it is just screaming. Or maybe, especially if it is just screaming._

_Next Chapter: Meet the liar / This dead black night / Our destiny revealed / Meet the enemy / It will never be the same (Meet the Enemy, by Eluveitie)._


	13. Chapter 13

Neal shook his head, heading back to the knot of his family after seeing Aldon off through the Floo. His friend had been stiff, stubborn, but Neal could tell that Aldon was hurt by his apparent rejection. He saw the Blacks leaving as well, with John and the other Scamanders; that meant it was an appropriate time for him and his family to take off, too.

Maybe one dance with Yuki first, though. She had refused the first dance, turning her nose up at the crowd, but now that people were starting to clear out, maybe she would be more amenable to the idea.

He cut across the floor, heading to the cluster of his own family. There were a few others mixed in with them, now – the Heir Goldenlake was there with them, getting along famously with Graeme and Dom and one of the younger Naxens. Will was listening to Tina rant, probably about the eighteen different ways that she wanted to murder Aldon Blake, while Jessa, Fei, and Yuki were laughing over a plate of the overpriced, bland hors d'oeuvres that were being served at the event.

Kel, however, was staring off across the ballroom, expression guarded. Neal knew that expression – Kel didn't tend to show a lot of her emotions across her face, but there was a way she held herself that stood out when she was worried.

"What's up?" Neal joined her, nudging her with one shoulder. She was fingering her necklace, which Neal knew to be her naginata, shrunk so that she could sneak it into the Ball. Yuki had hers on her too, though they had argued vociferously about whether it would be useful in close quarters fighting.

"I'm not sure…" Kel's voice was pensive, even as her eyes flicked over the ballroom. "Something feels off, but I'm not sure what."

Neal turned to look out over the ballroom, his guard coming up. The crowds were thinning – it wasn't just the Blacks and Scamanders who seemed to think calling it a night was appropriate. Before, a number of school-aged witches and wizards had been present, but many of them seemed to have left as well. Their parents had probably sent them home before they could watch a gruesome possible duel to the death.

He couldn't see anything that was strange or suspicious in the least, but Kel had always had good instincts. If she was standing here, convinced that something was wrong, then she had seen something, heard something, to make her believe it, even if she couldn't describe it. He was about to turn to his mother to ask, when one of the walls _exploded _out at them.

"The Floo Room!"

Someone was screaming. Neal whirled around, drawing his sword, wind alive, seeing a young man, handsome, only his age, standing in the rubble with a cold, hard look on his face. Behind him, Neal could see two dozen mages, their faces covered by masks, wands out.

Someone on the other side of the room screamed too, and Neal glanced over to see a different group of mages, all masked even if a third of them were in formal Ball dress, blasting into the crowd on the other side. A pincer movement – they were being flanked.

"Yuanling, take your father and go." His mother was already snapping out orders, her eyes scanning the sides of the room for an exit. "No, the Floo is gone, there is only the exit to No-Maj London big enough. We need to hold it to get the guests out!"

"We also need to provide support, a diversion!" Graeme was yelling, his wand already tucked away in favour of his broadsword. Will was beside him, pale, his sword in his right hand and wand in his left, and both the Heir Goldenlake and his friend, Naxen, had drawn their wands. Wind whipped around their group – both Neal and Will, now, but there were also shield spells courtesy of Dom and Kel. "We need to draw fire away from the exit – we need to hit back, so they don't go after the crowds!"

"Even the No-Maj entrance isn't big enough for a full evacuation." Kel's naginata was out, but only in a guard position – she couldn't swing it in such crowded quarters. "I can't – I can make it larger, I think, with my earth magic, but I need to get closer and I'll need someone to provide me cover when I do."

His mother looked around, her fan drawn from her robes, and her mouth tightened. She did not like what she saw, and she shook her head, a small, birdlike movement. "Fei Long, Yukimi, Tina, go with Keladry. Secure the exit, then Tina, return with Baird and Yuanling back to Queenscove and prepare for injuries. Yuanren, you are the Lord Queenscove – you must lead your brothers and Domitan on the counterattack."

"We'll be with you," Raoul Goldenlake said, already throwing up a shield spell to shunt away the tide of people running – where to, Neal didn't know. "Gareth and I will be with you. Tell us where to go."

"With Yuanren," his mother decided, one eye towards their wands, and Goldenlake nodded. "Guard their backs and provide ranged cover. I will—"

She hesitated, looking at the two groups, and Neal saw the problem – while she had divided them primarily on gender lines, that was more an issue of fighting skill and experience. She was aiming to get the weakest of their group out of battle, with just enough guards that they would be protected – but once they evacuated their weakest fighters, the ones sent with them would be alone, unlikely to be able to fight their way back to the rest of the group.

Kel and Fei were among their strongest duellers, but if Kel was occupied breaking them out, they had only Fei to defend them. Jessa was fourteen, nowhere near done her training, and while Yuki had learned traditional casting, she had done so largely as a matter of culture and was not a fighter. Baird Queenscove was a Healer and had no experience duelling, and to his knowledge, neither had Tina. A glance at Will confirmed the last point – Will was staring at Tina, his expression terrible and afraid, though he gripped his sword with a white-knuckled hand and Neal had no doubt his brother would obey his orders. Neal needed both his brothers, Dom and his mother with him. But securing the exit was critical, and they needed people both to help on the diversion and to hold the exit.

"I will go with your daughters, Lady Queenscove." The voice was calm, a mellow alto. The speaker was middle-aged, with light brown eyes that matched the curls falling around her shoulders. She held herself with confidence, a short, dark wand in her hand. "Riddle's people broke their formation at the Muggle entrance – it must be secured."

Neal's mother hesitated. For all that she spoke with reason, the woman didn't look like a fighter in the least. Her robes were a rich violet, her build curvy, not one that spoke to hours spent training in either lists or a duelling arena. But she held up her left hand, and a heavy silver ring, one which, seconds ago, Neal would have dismissed as a wedding band, spat sparks, a shape so quick he couldn't identify it, into the air. He heard his mother suck in a breath, and he glanced over to see that her expression had changed to one of co-mingled respect and caution.

"Stormwing," his mother muttered, eyes narrowing, and Neal whipped his head back around to look at the woman. He had heard of the mercenary organization, of course, they were legendary among soldiers, Aurors, anyone who made their living fighting. They said that more than half the people who attempted Stormwing training dropped out before they made their Service Year, and that one in four died on Service. He would never attempt it himself; those who went for Stormwing training were the desperate, those desperately running away from something or desperately running towards something. But if they survived, they were the terror of the battlefields, mages trained exclusively in the art of war. Most threw their talents behind whoever paid them the most.

Neal understood his mother's reluctance.

"Your attributes," his mother said, her voice clipped. "Your name and attributes, please."

"Lina Avery," the woman replied, a little distant as she focused her eyes on the exit into No-Maj London. She made a quick, small movement with one hand, and Neal heard the sound of Blasting runes going off. "Duty, tolerance, and caution. My torture limit is thirteen minutes and forty-four seconds. I swear to you, Lady Queenscove – your family will be as safe with me as I can possibly make them."

Neal swallowed uncomfortably. Stormwings were tortured to the brink of insanity, just to see how long they would take to break, then trained in the art of withstanding torture. Almost fourteen minutes was _long _to hold under a Torture Curse. _Tabernak_. Who was this woman, and why was she in Wizarding Britain?

"Very well," his mother said, making a snap decision. "I will trust my husband and daughters to your care. Yuanren, focus! I will go with you – where do we attack?"

Neal swallowed again, taking a deep breath, and focused on the scene before him. He wasn't good at this – he had never used the training instilled in him as a child, though a fair amount of it related to battle tactics. Kel would be better at this, but she was gone with the Stormwing, and it was her magic they needed to stabilize the exit to break out of the Ministry. He had to make a decision, and he looked over the crowds – people were screaming and fleeing, a chaotic mess where no one could tell friend from foe.

"The group near the elevators," he decided, throwing himself forward and pushing people out of his way as he strove towards them. They were closer to him, and the motley crew of Riddle's associates struggling from where they had broken their position at the No-Maj gate were too far away. There would be too many casualties in that corner if he didn't do something _now_. "Fire – I need someone to throw me some _fire!_"

Fire billowed into existence in front of them, with either Graeme or his mother tamping it down just enough that the people nearby had time to dive out of the way, and Neal didn't hesitate in pressing his advantage. He blasted a gust of wind in the same direction as the flames, blowing them into the masked invaders, creating a path forward.

He and his brothers, his cousin, his mother, Goldenlake and Naxen slammed into the side of the attacking flank, the hot air and scent of fire blowing around them. Neal caught only glimpses of the others in the next hour – he was caught, fast, duelling a hulking, slope-shouldered man who spat spells at him in Old Slavic, while his brothers, Graeme and Will, were taking on two men who looked and sounded so similar they had to be brothers as well. Will had both his wand and sword out, his movements quick and efficient while he tried to find an opening, any opening, and Graeme wore a tight, strained smile as he deflected a spell with a whirl of his blade. Dom and the wand-users were behind them, guarding their backs, and Neal saw Dom Summon a flock of tiny crows which swarmed the nearest masked intruder, digging holes into his face. Goldenlake and Naxen were holding their own – Naxen a little slow, but shields flickered into existence, not only around them but around his brothers.

His mother was beside Lord Dumbledore, her fan snapping out the tiny, vicious fire and slashing spells that she had become famous for in her Tournament, almost thirty years ago. She moved almost as well as she did thirty years ago too, cat-like, her footwork pristine as she pelted spell after spell at the wildly laughing witch in front of her. Mei Ling Song rarely blocked, instead dancing, almost whimsically, around the spells being thrown at her. Lord Dumbledore's magic, by contrast, was elaborate, showy, but still effective as he raised walls of jagged glass, of thorns and briars, as he sent shaking, rolling waves through the floor.

Neal only caught sight of the entrance into No-Maj London once – what was once an elegant set of red elevators was smoking, a crater of blast runes and debris with a set of very rough stairs leading outside. The Ministry would have to come up with an explanation for that, or the No-Maj government would – a gas explosion, maybe, but streams of people were getting out, heading into the night, away from the battlefield in front of them. He couldn't see his father, his sister or Tina anymore, but Kel and Yuki were still there, with Fei and the Stormwing, controlling the crowds through some combination of intimidation and magic. He saw the Stormwing _Depulso_ a man who was trampling a woman in front of him in his desperation to get out, throwing him several paces back.

Near the Floo Room, or where the Floo Room had been, Neal saw Lord Riddle in combat with the young man, the only unmasked intruder. The Lord Riddle's expression was cold, determined, while the young man's face was frozen in cruel hate. Green light fired between the two of them, and the others around them gave the pair a wide berth – whoever the young man was, both he and Lord Riddle fully intended on killing the other, and no one wanted to be caught in a poorly aimed Killing Curse.

Each of these moments were flashes, instant glimpses that Neal saw but that he could do nothing about. He was too focused on his own fight, on dodging or blocking the spells coming at him and finding an opening to strike back. Fighting a battle was _nothing_ like fighting a duel – in a duel, he had only to keep an eye on one opponent, and in this battle, he felt like his eyes were everywhere, his attention shattered onto small pieces, watching his back as well as the opponent in front of him. He thought Dom saved him at least once, one of his little conjured crows taking a spell for him, and someone was throwing shields up for him while he dove into whatever openings he could find. More than once, Neal, too, flicked a shield spell at one of his family members.

His blade bit into flesh, a feeling that he would never truly become accustomed to, but he pushed forward. Between him and Will, the temperature in their corner was plummeting, and it was taking a toll in their opponents. He was fine – he and Will were naturally impervious to their own element, and Graeme and his mother had their fires protecting them. One of them, Neal hoped, would think to shield Dom and their other allies. The masked man he was fighting was panting heavily, his breath appearing in the air, starting to shiver, and Neal hoped he gave the man frostbite.

They were falling back – their opponents were falling back, and Neal didn't realize when most of the room had cleared except for the people who were still fighting. There were bodies on the floor, but Neal couldn't bring himself to look at them, still too occupied with the man fighting him. He didn't hear any order to retreat, but the man hissed, Neal's piercing spell slamming into his side, just before he twisted and Apparated away.

Neal panted, looking down for a second at his bloody sword, then flicking it once with a grimace to Vanish the blood. A spell he had been taught as a child, a part of his morning routine over the past eighteen years, but never one that he had had to use for its given purpose.

"The Anti-Apparition Wards went down," he heard Dom say, and he had never been more grateful to hear his cousin's voice. He turned around, and while Dom was holding a cut on his arm, a little wan, he seemed to be fine. Goldenlake and Naxen were with him, both grim-faced as they looked at the carnage around them. "They're gone. Whoever they were, they're gone."

Neal nodded, sheathing his sword and drawing his wand. A quick glance at his core, and he grimaced again – he was down well below of his normal levels, under a third left, so he would need to triage carefully. Whoever he could get back to Queenscove safely, he would have to leave to his father.

His mother's eyes were narrowed, her expression almost haughty as she looked around. She exchanged a few words with Lord Dumbledore, who looked no happier, before shaking her head and scanning for her family. Neal swallowed, hurrying over to his brothers – Graeme had one arm around Will's shoulder as he pulled him forwards. Will was pale from blood loss or something worse, his breathing erratic, and Neal wove his wand in the fastest diagnostic loop he had ever cast.

"A blood curse, _really_?" Neal raised an eyebrow at his next eldest brother, reviewing the results with a small sigh of relief. It was a bad curse, but they were lucky. Lucky that the enemy had retreated when they did, lucky that Neal was a Healer specializing in Emergency Healing, lucky that, as bad as the curse was, it was easily countered if found in time. As it was, the curse was winding its way through Will's bloodstream, seeking his core, where if it nested, it would start turning his blood into acid. It was intended for a slow, painful death, one where Will's own blood would eat him from the inside out, supported by his own magic, and no Healer could extract it then. Neal shook his head – if he wasn't here, if he wasn't also a Healer, there was a very good chance that Will would have died.

His magic ran through his brother's veins, a Light counter-spell dissipating the curse into nothing, but Neal didn't have time or the magic to search for every last trace. Instead, he set up a containment barrier around Will's core, just in case he had missed a strain – with the containment barrier, anything he missed could be gotten later. "No magic, Will. Nothing until Papa clears you – blood curses are bad, and while I've blocked off your core just in case I missed parts of it, Papa needs to run two or three more screens on you before he can lift it and you'll breach my containment barrier if you do any magic. You couldn't have _dodged_ the spell?"

"Was shielding Graeme," Will muttered, his accent thick, resting his head in his hands. "I'm not – was never as good as the two of you at duelling."

Neal shook his head, wrapping his next eldest brother in a tight hug. It had been close – too close. Will was easily the more uptight and annoying of his brothers, but he was his _brother_. "Get Papa to check you when you get back to Queenscove. Graeme, can you Apparate him back? Leaky Cauldron, then Floo, otherwise you'll be trekking for an hour over the grounds."

Graeme nodded, putting on a jovial grin even if his eyes were worried, and he pulled Will away with him. Graeme was fine – nothing but a few scratches and bruises, and Graeme would have said otherwise if he wasn't. "Come on, little bro. You know what this means tomorrow, right? It means I get to beat you into the dirt, because you haven't been practicing enough in Geneva!"

Neal heard Will groan, and he smiled a little despite himself as he turned to see who else might need him. Dom looked fine too, and the Checking Charm Neal threw at him came out clear.

"I'll go with them, see they get home," Dom said, shaking his head at the Checking Charm. "I'll see Kel, Yukimi, and Fei home too, though Fei looks pissed."

"Knowing her, she thinks she didn't see enough action." Neal laughed a little, even if it came out weak, unreal. "She got shunted off into herding evacuees, instead of getting to hit people."

Dom shook his head with another sigh and headed off. Dom and Fei weren't directly related, nor had they met before, but they had bonded close over the holidays. Neal took another look in the direction of the stairs upwards, outwards, into No-Maj London, and noticed that the Stormwing was gone.

"Lord Queenscove, Lady Queenscove." A pause, and the voice continued, dipping a little in wary resignation. "Lord Dumbledore."

Neal fought to keep yet another grimace off his face – Lord Riddle's voice was distinctive, and Neal did not want to deal with a political game tonight. Neal was a Healer, an Emergency Healer, and he should be making himself useful taking care of people. There were at least four or five people he could see who needed his help, but he could hardly ignore the most powerful politician in Wizarding Britain. Or rather, he _shouldn't_.

His mother slapped him on the shoulder, her glare easily understood. Neal winced, before turning around to face Lord Tom Marvolo Riddle, head of the SOW Party.

"Lord Riddle," he acknowledged, his words short. Lord Riddle still somehow looked well-dressed, composed, even if Neal knew he had been exchanging Killing Curses with Wizarding Britain's resident terrorist threat not even a half hour ago.

"I thank you all for your assistance, tonight," Lord Riddle said, and he even sounded genuine. His expression was worn, grave, and Neal could see behind him that Healers were Apparating in. There were still bodies littered across the floor, but not so many as Neal had feared. The worst struck were where his group had been, where they had been taken entirely by surprise, and Neal thought most of those had happened before he had gotten involved. "It has been … a challenging night. I had hoped that my precautions would be sufficient; we were aware that the Ball would be a risk, and I had as many Aurors and others alert as possible."

Neal felt his eyebrows pinch together. They were _bait_, that entire night. Even if the Lord Riddle wasn't _lying_, Neal thought he was taking wide liberties with the truth, and he wondered vaguely what Aldon's gift would have thought, if he were here. Lord Riddle had known, as well as Neal and Aldon and, probably, the Lord Dumbledore, that the terrorist would not resist the target, and he had set them up to draw the terrorist out. Maybe it was even a good idea, tactically speaking, but Lord Riddle could not pretend that this whole scenario had not been set up in advance with an open prospect of casualties.

"You were betrayed." Neal's mother said, her voice matter-of-fact, nodding her head towards the Ministry elevators. "One of your people leaked your plans, hid people in your Ministry."

Lord Riddle's eyes flashed, his expression twisting in cold rage. "I am aware. They will be caught, and tried, under law. Still, I am… grateful for your assistance. The casualties would have been worse, were it not for you and your family. And you, Dumbledore."

The elderly man examined him for a minute, blue eyes piercing over half-moon glasses. "We disagree on a great many things, Tom," he said finally, his voice neutral. "But I, too, will not stand for wanton destruction or loss of life."

Riddle studied Dumbledore for several long seconds, before nodding. "In that, we can agree."

He turned around, back to where Healers were still Apparating in, to confer with his own people. Lord Malfoy, Neal saw, was still alive and present, with Lord Parkinson nearby. A man with greasy shoulder-length hair was kneeling beside one of the fallen, putting a vial of potion to the man's lips, and Goldenlake and Naxen were fanning out as well, checking on the casualties. Neal sighed, heading to the nearest fallen body.

Not merely stunned, or Petrified, or anything so kind. Dead. Neal leaned over, closing the man's hazel-brown eyes, before he turned to the next fallen form. More bodies than survivors, in his section, but there was one that was still _just_ alive, into whom he poured magic to stabilize. The woman would need long-term care, but she would live, he thought. He hoped. There was enough death, tonight.

"You can stop now, Lord Queenscove." The voice interrupted his reverie, with a touch on his shoulder. The woman was dressed in blue, traditional Healer's robes, even if they were cut in the Wizarding British style. "You've been fighting too – you're drained, and the emotional impact of what you saw tonight shouldn't be underestimated. Go home. Lord Riddle had us prepared to come in, and we can manage from here."

Neal hesitated, glancing back over the room. Healers dotted the room now, briskly moving about and levitating bodies into a neat row at the back, treating the survivors. There was a line of stretchers, already half-full, of people who needed to be transported to St. Mungo's, and more Healers kneeling beside others, checking them over, conducting triage.

She was probably right, but he was a Healer too, and he should do everything he could before he left.

"You must be running low on magic," the Healer prodded, not unkind. "You've done a lot here, my lord. Go home. Look after your family."

Neal peeked at his core and winced – he was down below a fifth of his magic. She was right – as much as he didn't want to admit it, she was right, and there was little more that he could do. Even at Queenscove, he had to hope that his father was able to manage without much help, because he didn't have much more to give. He nodded, a little reluctant, and his mother caught him by the elbow. "Thank you. Good luck."

At Queenscove, Neal was immediately assaulted by Will, hand in hand with Tina and with a curious spark in his emerald eyes. He was looking better, much to Neal's relief, though the expression on his face was odd – it was intent, part anger and frustration, part desperation, part nervousness. Neal raised his wand, thinking of another diagnostic charm, but—

"Neal, are you _sure_ you can't make your damn castle give Tina and I a room to share?" Will's words were quick, sharp, and Neal frowned at him, glancing at Jessa, who was still in the room. She was fourteen, and while they were awful at excluding her from things she shouldn't hear and things she shouldn't do, they usually made at least a token effort.

"I know what _sex_ is, Neal," Jessa said, rolling her eyes and waving one hand for them to go on.

"Do we need to beat someone up?" Graeme asked, a strain of hope in his voice, and Neal laughed. Graeme had been wanting to play overprotective big brother practically since Jessa was born, and terrifying Jessa's boyfriends was top of his to do list. "Please, _please_ tell me yes, Jessa."

She only rolled her eyes again. "And that's why I won't tell you anything when I start dating. I can look after myself, Graeme."

Will prodded Neal in the side, drawing his attention back to him. "Room, Neal. I nearly died today, and I want to _share a room_ with Tina tonight, and I want to _shut the door_. Are you hearing me, _mon petit frère?_"

Neal sighed, rubbing his head, giving up. "Yeah, _mais comme je t'ai dit_, there's only so much I can order Queenscove to do. It doesn't want you sharing rooms because you aren't married – it disapproves. It was built before the Conquest, it has certain ideas, and it just won't do it. Sorry."

Will nodded, and from the expression on his face, he hadn't expected anything different. He never had. Neal raised an eyebrow, but then his brother let him go and turned to face Tina. Will drew his wand, casting a wordless Summoning Charm – a moment later, a small wooden box flew into his hand.

"Tina," his brother started, dropping to one knee and flicking the box open to show a shining silver and diamond ring. The setting was unique, non-traditional, the metal hugging the diamond all the way around. "I was going to wait. You said you wanted to wait until our careers were settled, so I waited, but goddammit Tina I have been in love with you since I was fourteen years old and we've been together since we were fifteen and we went through the Tournament together and we've lived together and fought together and do our groceries and our laundry and our taxes together. I nearly died tonight, and I _do not want _to spend another night without you. Marry me. Please, Tina."

Tina blinked, and Neal saw her eyes were shining a little. "I – we saw this ring when we were in Paris. A year ago. You _hated_ it. We went back to our hotel and argued over bezel settings until I dragged you to bed. You said you thought I should have something timeless and elegant, not blocky and sculptural."

"But you'd be the one wearing it, I'd hoped. And you liked it so much I went back and bought it," Will said, holding the ring out to her. "I – I was going to surprise you, in a few years."

"Consider me surprised," Tina replied, and she was sniffling. Neal glanced over at his other siblings, his cousins – he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to pretend like he wasn't there? Or were they supposed to do something else?

Graeme shrugged, but he was grinning, and Papa was hiding a smile behind his hand. Mama had one arm around Papa's shoulder, while Jessa looked like she was suppressing laughter. Fei had turned around, exasperated, while Dom was awkwardly looking anywhere but at Will and Tina. Kel and Yuki had both managed to school their faces into expressions of polite interest, but their eyes were dancing.

"That's not a yes, Tina." Will said, still kneeling on the floor, his voice mixed worry and hope.

"Do I need to say it?" Her voice was thick with tears, and she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe – much cleaner than Will's, Neal saw. "Goddammit, Will. Yes. Yes, all right? Yes."

Neal let out a breath that he didn't know he had been holding, his heart melting a little, and he was about to start the applause when Will stood up, whirling around to face him, Tina's hand already locked in his. "Is that enough, Neal? Is that enough for your damn backwards conservative castle? Can we go to _our _room now?"

Neal paused, thinking about it, as Tina started laughing, even while wiping her eyes. _Is that enough for you? Look, ring and everything. It's almost 1996, Queenscove. Bend a little._

The castle made a grumbling sort of feeling at him, but there was a snap, and the two rooms Will and Tina had had merged into one. Neal grinned at his next eldest brother. "Guess it is, Will. Congratulations."

XXX

The _Daily Prophet_ was worse than Aldon could have imagined.

He had thought that he would make the front page. He had happily broken a half-dozen etiquette rules, approaching people he didn't have the status to talk to anymore without invitation, bowing to the wrong degree, holding Francesca far too closely to be decent. He had co-opted the dance floor for a public performance, detracting from other entertainment. He fought a duel against his pureblood, noble cousin, and he had dared to win it, and then he had taken the opportunity to swear himself to a Muggleborn girl in a medieval magical rite that hadn't been seen in centuries. He had thought it was practically a guarantee: he would wake up, and the _Daily Prophet_ would be trumpeting his insanity – or his disgrace.

_UNITY BALL ATTACKED_, the front page screamed instead, and there was a picture of Lord Riddle, hair in slight disarray, speaking to reporters against the backdrop of the destroyed Ministry.

Aldon seized the paper, skimming it, but the headline said everything he really needed to know. _Late at night on the 28th_ _of December, the Ministry Unity Ball was attacked by unknown, masked intruders…_ _estimate a force of more than forty witches and wizards who remain unidentified… sixteen deaths reported, with a further fifty-two witches and wizards in the care of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies._

Lord Riddle had released a statement condemning the attack – _horrific attack on a charity event, perpetrators to be caught and prosecuted to the full extent of the law, unforeseen tragedy, we thank the assistance of the many witches and wizards who remained to defend the guests. _It was rote, exactly as Aldon would have expected, though his eyes lingered on the special thanks to Lord Dumbledore and to the Lord Queenscove and family. Lord Dumbledore, too, had commented, stating in the strongest terms that the attack was heinous and reprehensible, and that all effort should be expended in bringing the perpetrators to justice.

Aldon shut his eyes briefly, issuing a wordless thanks that at least, he and Francesca and Archie had been gone before any of this had happened. Perhaps it was a good thing that he had duelled – perhaps it was a good thing that he had proposed, if it had gotten them all out before the attack happened. It had been close – another half hour, and they would have been in the fray. Queenscove had been involved, and Aldon knew that Neal had been planning on leaving shortly after he saw Aldon through the Floo. It must have been so, so close.

He took a deep breath, opening he paper to the next page to skim the name of the deaths. He hoped that none of Queenscove's family would be on the list – he hoped that, unlike most of the other attendees, their advance preparation had given them an edge and that they had come out unscathed. The list of names was vaguely familiar – he knew the Abbott family, who had lost two, he knew the Burkes, he knew the McLaggens, but he wasn't close to any of them.

_Augustus Rookwood_.

The name leapt out at him, and Aldon froze a second. He almost couldn't believe it – Ed's father was young, much younger than his own parents, only in his forties. How could he be dead?

He was high in the SOW Party. Augustus Rookwood had stood highest of the non-noble families, his position in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries placing him into Riddle's esteem. He had probably been high enough to have known about the risk to the Ball, maybe even involved in the plans. And now he was dead.

Ed.

Aldon took a shaky breath, then he pushed himself away from the kitchen table. He had the day off – with the holidays, Christie had deemed that rather than trying to come up with a schedule for the office, the office would just shut down for the week. Everyone wanted the time off, and they worked in _research and development_. Things could wait until January, she had said, and they could all go spend some time with their families. And it was a Friday, so the shops would be open.

He didn't know what he and Ed were, now. He didn't know if they were friends, or if fifteen years of friendship had disappeared with his disownment, crushed by Aldon's own choices over the last six months. All he knew as that Ed had been his friend, his _best _friend, and he owed it to him to send him his condolences.

There was a paper shop not far away from where he lived, stuffed full of journals and pens and cards. It was where he had bought his neat black notebook, warded with his blood, in which he kept track of all his new potential allies. Aldon took his time, over the card racks, picking out one that was perfectly solemn and yet elegant – one with shining golden script expressing his sentiments. He borrowed a pen, drafting a quick message expressing his sincerest condolences to his oldest friend, and took off to Diagon Alley to post it.

People didn't stare at him, in Diagon Alley. Not anymore. The Alley was uncommonly quiet, especially for the holiday season. There were few people out on the streets, the cobblestones slick and air cold, the windows frosted over on the inside with warmth. People didn't linger, chatting as they might have otherwise, and the few tea shops and restaurants that Aldon passed were empty.

The Owl Post Office only had a tired man behind the counter, the _Daily Prophet _opened in front of him, who looked up when Aldon walked in. Aldon held up his letter, wordless, and the man nodded.

"Condolences," he said, his voice rough as he fetched an owl. "Regular speed? Or do you need express, Mr. Blake?"

"Regular will be fine." Aldon shook his head, flipping the man a Sickle. It was staying within Britain, so express or not, it made no difference. The man offered him a sleepy-looking barn owl, and Aldon stuck his card onto a piece of twine with a Sticking Charm, then tied it to the bird. He nodded briefly to the man, who was picking up his newspaper again, and headed out to the streets to send the owl on its way.

He needed to do something. The morning after the attack, even with his own problems, Aldon needed to change, to adapt to the new situation, and perhaps it was better to let Francesca sleep in anyway. Francesca had always said she liked sleeping in, but there was never any time when she had to wake up early to have team meetings with Blake & Associates before she went to her classes. It was the holidays, and he should let her sleep before he called on Grimmauld Place and sought her forgiveness.

Instead, he had other ideas. Particularly, he had a certain set of letters which told him perfectly well who one or more people in Voldemort's terrorist organization were, and he had a life debt to use. And he needed _information_.

People didn't use life debts nearly as often as they should, he thought. Why hold onto them – for a better day, for a better favour? If one did that, then how would they know when the exact right time was to use it? And there was always the risk that the person owing the debt would find a way to get out of it somehow. Better to use the life debt as soon as possible, and Aldon knew exactly for what he would use _his_ life debt.

It was good that Diagon Alley was empty. He chose the emptiest tea shop he could find, ordering himself a platter of tea and picking an isolated corner booth. It took a few minutes to weave the warding spell he wanted, one that was a little unusual – this ward didn't keep people in or out, only sound, and outside the booth it would sound like a perfectly mundane conversation about the holidays. Maybe it was a little unrealistic, but Aldon didn't have it in him to create a realistic conversation, because it wasn't as if he would ever normally be meeting with _Caelum Lestrange_. Once his ward was finished, he half shut his eyes, reaching into his core, sensing for the minor thread of connection that indicated his life debt, and he _pulled_.

Life debts were _magical debts_. One couldn't hide from the person to whom the debts were owed, and while the polite thing to do would have been to write a letter, Aldon had never liked Lestrange anyway. Of course he could compel Lestrange to come to him and receive his task, and he didn't deny that he felt a vindictive, vicious sort of pleasure at it, too. He even had Lestrange's wand, still – he had tucked it in his waistcoat, just in case he needed it for leverage. Wands were expensive, now, and critical for most witches and wizards to be able to use magic.

He poured himself a cup of tea while he waited. The shop stayed empty, the woman at the counter ignoring him as she straightened the tins of tea at the back. He wondered idly if Francesca would like this sort of place, once he had successfully apologized and won her back – she loved tea and kept nearly a dozen varieties close to hand. He would take her here, he thought, when she forgave him. If she forgave him.

She had to forgive him. They had had something there, between them, something made of secrets and circuitry, out of magical theory and Muggle science, out of a shared intense desire to be _seen. _She wouldn't turn her back on that – Aldon might have made a mistake, but she wouldn't turn her back on him. He hoped.

The tinkle of bells in the doorway announced Lestrange's entrance. His cousin was scowling, his posture slumped, dressed in stained brewing robes. Aldon half-smiled, nothing nice about it, and waved a hand to him.

Lestrange's face darkened, and he strode over to Aldon's booth, dropping into the other side with a disgusted look. "What in the name of Merlin are you _wearing_? You couldn't have dressed properly to come into the Wizarding world? You _have_ turned into a Muggle."

Aldon laughed, a hard, sharp laugh. "A Muggle that has your wand and a life debt, one that I am invoking right now."

Lestrange made a noise, a low one of mixed annoyance and resigned rage. "And you couldn't have owled me? I left a sensitive potion on stasis, I'll have you know. Could explode, take Diagon Alley with it."

"Liar," Aldon said coolly, almost a little amused, his core rippling. "You might have been brewing, but it's nothing dangerous. A Healing potion for your wounded pride, maybe?"

Lestrange scowled again, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Get to the point, Blake. You're calling in your debt, fine, but I don't have to sit here and listen to your drivel. What do you want?"

Aldon took his time, topping off his cup of tea before filling a fresh one for his cousin. Another subtle jab – it was only polite to fill up a guest's cup first, and by not doing so, Aldon was implicitly showing his disrespect. He pushed Lestrange's cup across the table to him, though Lestrange made no move to take it.

Vanilla chai and victory. That was what he had ordered, and it was delicious.

"Voldemort," Aldon said casually, lifting the cup of tea to his lips. "Your mother is in his organization."

Lestrange stared at him, expressionless, but Aldon could tell from the way his shoulders stiffened that he hadn't expected that. Aldon waited, and it was a half-minute before his cousin responded.

"What of it?" he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I have little to do with my mother, Blake, these days. I am occupied with my apprenticeship."

That was news to Aldon, but he accepted it, nonetheless. For one, his core told him that Lestrange believed the statement, and for the other, he had always tried to avoid his cousin at any previous events. He didn't know Lestrange that well, and he was relying entirely on a life debt and his gift to work through this. "You have an access point into Voldemort's organization. It would be a small thing for you to approach your mother, ask to be introduced, join with him. I need information, Lestrange. I don't know enough about Voldemort, and I need to know more, and you are going to get in and provide that information to me."

Lestrange froze, and it was a moment before he let out a long breath. "You don't know what you're asking of me."

"On the contrary, I know perfectly well what I am asking of you," Aldon retorted, taking another sip of his tea. "Your letter was explicit – your mother is Voldemort's torture expert. It happens that I don't care. This is not a request, Lestrange. You owe me a life debt, and I am collecting on it."

Lestrange's lips thinned. "This is more than even a life debt, Blake. My mother is already out for my blood for losing last night's duel – I suspect Voldemort is little different. How the _blyat_ do you expect me to involve myself in this organization?"

Aldon shrugged, pulling Lestrange's wand from his waistcoat and holding it up, before putting it down on the table in front of him. "I'll give you your wand back. Use the duel. Make up something about the shame and embarrassment of having lost to me so publicly, say that you need to get revenge on me. You were smart enough to get a Potions Guild internship, so I assume you're clever enough. Work something out."

Lestrange muttered something else, harsh syllables that Aldon didn't recognize but which he assumed were profanities. Lestrange didn't say anything, but he reached out for the cup of tea Aldon had poured him and downed it, choking a little on its hot contents.

"This isn't a request, Lestrange," Aldon reiterated, watching his cousin's ice blue eyes narrow, looking for a way _out_. "You will go join Voldemort's organization, and you will report to me when you've done so. You will provide me with regular reports including their activities, their plans, their organizational structure – anything and everything you learn about Voldemort and his people comes to me. You'll do what you need to do, say whatever you need to say to earn Voldemort's trust and remain hidden, and you'll tell me everything you find out. You will _not _betray me."

Aldon paused, thinking. He felt the life debt ticking away, taking his orders into account and writing them into Lestrange's magic. Lestrange's mouth was growing thinner and thinner, but Aldon couldn't see any way to make his final order tighter, not without potentially interfering with one of his earlier orders. It would have to do, and he raised his cup to his lips for more tea.

There was a long silence.

"This makes us even," Lestrange snapped finally, snatching his wand from where Aldon had set it on the table, not that he had much of a choice. "I do this, and this makes us even, Blake. After this, we don't talk. We aren't friends. We walk away. You never speak me again, and I do not speak to you. I don't want your Muggle pollution touching me."

"Done." Aldon smiled, one which held no humour in it whatsoever. He had what he wanted, and Lestrange could throw whatever verbal jabs he wanted at him. "By way of code – standard book code, _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, fifth edition, London printing. Do you need me to explain it?"

Lestrange shook his head, standing up from the table. "No need. Page number, word number."

He didn't bother with a goodbye, his expression dark as he strode away. Aldon smirked, but didn't bother calling after him – his cousin wouldn't hear it anyway. Instead, Aldon finished his pot of tea, carefully unravelling his ward as he did so, then paid the bill and headed to Grimmauld Place.

Much to his dismay, Francesca wouldn't see him, and nothing Aldon said made Sirius, Archie, or John budge on the matter. And John broke his nose again.

XXX

Archie was exhausted. Exhausted and worried.

Before the Ball, it had been all preparations, including teaching Hermione to dance. Hermione had two left feet, and even teaching her the basics of a waltz had been hard, made harder by the fact that Hermione didn't _like_ dancing. Or, more accurately, she didn't like formal dancing – he had caught her bobbing her head or moving her hips to No-Maj music more than once, humming along. She just didn't like the waltz. She thought it was _elitist_.

There was Dad, too – Dad was worried, and it seemed like nothing Archie could say would lessen it. He was disappointed that Dad wasn't reading _Bridge_, not in full, and while Archie trusted Dad not to say anything about their activities, he wished Dad was more engaged. Dad never said it outright, but he didn't have Archie's faith that _Bridge_ would make any difference at all.

Archie was pretty sure that own thoughts, _but what else can I do? _hung equally in the air between them. They didn't need to say it. Maybe it was all Archie could hope for that Dad said nothing, even if he didn't _help _with _Bridge_, but he wished he could push him for more.

Then the Ball happened. Archie had relied heavily on Hermione throughout, but her carefully prepared arguments on blood discrimination seemed to go nowhere. The most they had been able to do was point out inaccuracies (so many inaccuracies) in the tale that the _Daily Prophet_ had woven about the trial, about the Marriage Law, about the international reception of the same. Yes, Archie had been convicted, but Justice's decision and his sentence showed that Justice was prepared to strike the laws as unjust, they had only lost on _standing_. The Marriage Law was a rampant violation on the freedoms of Muggleborns and halfbloods, and had wide ranging effects for family law, for succession and inheritance, and for private international law. The international community overwhelmingly disapproved, and the third time someone dismissively told them that the resultant trade embargoes would have no effect on Wizarding Britain, Archie had surreptitiously poked Hermione on the side to keep her from losing her head entirely.

And then there was the duel, and Aldon's proposal, and now Chess was hiding in her room at Grimmauld Place with a truly monstrous stack of romance novels. She had taken a break from the ACD, though Archie wondered if it wasn't just that she looked at it and remembered Aldon, and he checked in on her every couple of hours with more mugs of tea as she plowed through too many romance novels, occasionally dissolving into tears.

She said she didn't want to see Aldon, and so Archie dutifully turned him away when he showed up, which was every day.

"Are you sure?" he asked, hesitant, three days in while John glared daggers at him, a comic book in his lap. Archie counted six empty mugs formerly holding tea, two stacks of comics, three teddy bears, and at least fourteen romance novels piled around them on her bed. "I think he just wants to apologize."

"I don't want to see him," she replied, rolling to turn away from him, book in hand. "Make him go away."

Archie sighed – far be it for him to try to change her mind, but he didn't like being the messenger. Better him than John, though. Archie didn't need to fix another broken nose.

"She said no, Al," he reported with a helpless shrug, sliding into the warm kitchen. Aldon was pacing up and down the length of the kitchen like a restless cat.

Aldon looked up at him, and if he were a cat, Archie thought he would be standing at Chess' door, meowing imperiously to be let in. "Are you sure?"

Archie raised his eyebrows, unsure what to say, though he couldn't help the slight laugh that escaped him. "Er, yes? Her exact words were _I don't want to see him_ and _make him go away_. It's a little hard to misconstrue, Al."

"Right, stupid question," Aldon muttered, then he sighed. "I'm not – this isn't a situation with which I am familiar. I don't know what to do to make her speak to me. She doesn't answer her communication orb, either."

"John has the communication orb for now, I think." Archie slid into a seat at the kitchen table. "Give her some time. More than a day of time. Try something else, like an apology letter. Flowers. I don't know. Hermione says she doesn't like flowers, but she actually does as long as they don't make her sneeze, and Chess is way more girly so she'll love flowers."

"Perhaps," Aldon said, then he shook his head with a sigh. "Or gifts. Perhaps jewellery."

"Not now, Al." Archie frowned. Aldon sometimes just had no sense when it came to other people. "Jewellery is going too far, she'll think you're expecting something from her or trying to buy her forgiveness instead of actually being sorry. Don't do jewellery. Get a card and write a heartfelt apology in it. If you _have_ to get a present, get something small that you think she would like. Something cheap."

"She's not _cheap_," Aldon said, his voice a little sharp, and Archie rolled his eyes. He was about to retort that he never implied she was, just that Aldon's poor sense of proportion was what got him into this mess in the first place, when there was a knock at the door.

Or at least it would have been a knock on an _ordinary _door, but this was Grimmauld Place. Hermione's house had an electronic chime, Potter Place's knocker gave off a heavy, raucous clanging, like swords banging on shields, but Grimmauld Place's bell gave off _explosions, _the sound of a chain of fireworks that went on and on, for a full twenty seconds. Aldon winced, but Archie just grinned at his reaction and got up to get the door. Dad was away at volunteering, so it was Archie holding down the fort.

The girl standing on the steps was his age, dressed in black velvet mourning robes, her golden-blonde hair standing out brilliantly against the dark fabric. Her eyes were large, brown, her face too round and pale. She shivered, standing on Archie's front step.

"Hello," she said, dipping a small, tremulous curtsey. "You – you must be Arcturus Rigel Black. My name is Hannah. Hannah Abbott. Um. May I come in?"

Archie paused for only a second, because the girl was shaking, and she didn't have a coat. Whatever she wanted to discuss, they could do it from the comfort of his kitchen. "Yeah, of course. Come on in."

She nodded, smiling a little, and followed him with tiny, quick steps inside the house.

Aldon stopped his pacing and bowed immediately when she entered the kitchen, a very proper noble pureblood's bow. "Miss Abbott. My condolences for your loss. Your losses."

"Oh. Thank – thank you," Abbott stuttered, dipping another tiny curtsey. "Rosier, right?"

"Blake, now."

"Oh, yes, that – that's right." Abbott nodded, glancing over again at Archie. "Er…"

"Please, sit," Archie caught on quickly, gesturing to the kitchen table, and Abbott nodded, taking Archie's empty chair, which was already pulled out. "How can we help you, Miss Abbott?"

The girl took a deep, shaky sort of breath, but the door knocker went off again – another twenty seconds of explosions, and Abbott flinched. "Oh, _fudge_."

"I'll go get that," Archie said, glancing over at the girl curiously. Abbott was already standing up, her expression resigned.

"I'll come with you. I – I know who it is, and it's me he wants."

Archie raised his eyebrows at her comment, as well as her tone and expression, but he didn't argue as she followed him to the front door. Her footsteps were patter-soft, not what he would have expected for such a large girl, and he opened the door to see a dark-skinned youth, thin and in elegant silk robes of blue trimmed in gold, covered with a heavy woolen cloak.

"_Incarcerous_." The whisper of the spell caught Archie by surprise, whizzing over his shoulder, slamming into Blaise Zabini, one of Harry's friends, binding him tightly. Abbott's voice hadn't been angry when she cast the spell, only a little sad, and perfectly calm; it was unnerving. "My apologies for this, Black; It's – it's shifter business. I'll take responsibility for Blaise – he's my mate. I hoped I had lost him before getting here. _Levicorpus_."

"Hannah—" Zabini's word was choked, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. His eyes were wide with shock, especially when Abbott tugged him inside with a gentle, yet firm, pull on her wand.

The girl shook her head, her mouth small and tight. "I'm sorry to you too, Blaise. Again. You shouldn't have followed me. Again."

"Er…" Archie drew the noise out, unsure what he should be saying, if anything. He barely knew Zabini, though he had always thought he was one of Harry's more tolerable friends, and he felt like he should object to this treatment of him. It all looked like an unhealthy and moderately abusive relationship from his perspective, and Harry would have wanted him to say something, he thought. "I don't know—"

Abbott stopped, sighing. "I – I know what it looks like, Black. We're _shifter_ – things are a little… different, for us. I'll explain, I promise, and I'm not going to hurt him. I couldn't anyway, not really. He's predator, and I'm prey, and he's my mate, so it's… I'll explain."

"Hannah—" Zabini tried again, the word a low whine as he jolted along the hallway after her. She was very careful, guiding him skillfully through doorways without any harm, her eyes filled with a curious mix of pain, regret, and iron resolve.

"You aren't _Alliance_, Blaise," she said, her words tinged with frustration. "There – there are things you can't know, and I know you don't remember, but we've been through this before. I wish you would listen to me. I wish – wish you wouldn't _follow _me. There are things I have to do that you – you can't know about, and now I'm going to have to Obliviate you. Again."

Archie hesitated, but he shut the door and followed the two of them into the kitchen, where Aldon had his head tilted to one side in an open expression of curiosity. Abbott settled Zabini into another chair beside her, as if he were a child, running her hands quickly over the ropes and checking to make sure they didn't pinch him in any way. He overheard her asking if he was comfortable, but Zabini seemed too shocked, now, as well as confused, to respond.

"Interesting situation you've caught yourself in, Zabini," Aldon remarked, a half-smile on his face, but both Zabini and Abbott shot him a glare.

"Please – please don't mock us," Abbott said, her voice solemn and quiet. "It's not – it is what it is, Blake. I – I would very much appreciate if you did not mock my mate for this."

"Er, I think _we'd _appreciate an explanation," Archie broke in, with a look around the circle. "Look, I don't understand what's happening, and I've half a mind to call Dad or the Aurors or something. Your… mate?"

Abbott shrugged, a little uncomfortable. "We – we're shifters. We mate for life, and we – our instincts make the selection for us. I guess you could call it soulmates, but that makes it sound as if it's always the perfect partnership. It isn't. I – I have no choice but to love Blaise, but he isn't who I would have chosen for myself. I don't always _like _him, and I don't have to _trust_ him. It – it may be different for him, because as predator, the instincts drive him harder than me."

Archie looked between Abbott, whose expression was still fixed somewhere between sadness, resignation, and resolve, and Zabini, whose face had been schooled into blankness.

"I do my best, Hannah." Despite his expression, Zabini's voice was a mixture of hurt and anger. "I love you. I treat you well. I am not sure what more you could want from me."

The blonde girl studied him for a minute, her forehead creasing with slight annoyance, before shaking her head again. "You're not _Alliance_, Blaise," she repeated, her voice quiet and firm. "And you don't – don't respect me. You mostly see what you expect to see, when it comes to me: your mate, and someone submissive, easily pleased, not very smart, a Hufflepuff. The fat – fat girl who doesn't really deserve you and is too – too grateful to have you. I hear everyone say it, you know. And I've – I've had to Obliviate you four times this year, because you've caught me on Alliance business."

"Er…" Archie broke in again, still not sure whether he should be calling anyone. This was all very odd, and very uncomfortable, and he didn't understand the issue. He glanced over at Aldon, a question in his eyes, but Aldon shook his head very slightly.

Abbott sighed again, catching the glance, and she turned back to them. "I really am sorry about this. I - I had hoped to lose Blaise before I got here, and I'm very sorry that you had to see this. I'm here today on behalf of the Shifter Alliance. We've been talking among ourselves for the past few months, but we weren't able to come to a resolution until, well…"

She looked down, plucking at the front of her dark robes, and her voice carried a hint of tears. "We lost four in the Ball attack. Two of my older cousins, and James Elcombe and Gail Stephens were Alliance, too. _Four_. It's obvious that – that the Ministry isn't looking out for us. I was sent to talk to you about the possibility of working with you, and with _Bridge_. They – they thought you would be more receptive to someone your own age."

Archie glanced over at Aldon, who by now had taken a seat at the table, his hawk-like eyes sharp and focused and his hands folded in front of him. Aldon looked between Abbott and Zabini. "What exactly are you thinking, Miss Abbott? What is your _Alliance_ offering in return? I must admit that I know little of it, so if you would provide a brief explanation, it would be of help. And Zabini…"

"Please, call me Hannah. As for Blaise, he isn't Alliance, so – so I will be Obliviating him. I – I'm good at Memory Charms, so I'll – I'll give him a memory of us going out after the funerals, and it doesn't matter what he hears." Hannah shrugged a little, trying to be nonchalant, but Zabini's face was stony, staring at Hannah as if she had grown a second head. "He – he won't question it. I – I'm only _Hannah Abbott_, after all.

"The Shifter Alliance is what it sounds like – an alliance of shifters and shifter families. Not all shifters are part of it – Blaise's family split off some fifteen years ago. If – if you succeed in your plan for widespread emancipation, the Shifter Alliance would like a seat at the table in forming your new government so that we have a voice in politics, and we can express our concerns on wide-ranging issues that might affect us. As for what we offer – it may be easier to show you."

She pushed her seat back from the table, and a moment later, she was gone. Archie blinked for a moment, looking around, before a large brown rabbit hopped onto the seat that she had been in, then onto the table. The rabbit looked at them all with a steady eye, before jumping off the table and a second later, Hannah reappeared. "The Abbotts are – are rabbit shifters. Like rabbits, we also, er, have large – large families. That's why there are so many of us. We can pass you information without being detected – being a shifter isn't like being an Animagus, since it isn't a form of Transfiguration. We – we are as much our animal forms as our human forms. We don't get picked up by the usual magic detection spells, and we carry some part of our other forms into our human forms too. I'm a rabbit, a prey shifter, so I'm twitchy, but I have much sharper than normal hearing. And – and if there's more fighting, some of the Alliance can also fight in their other forms – we have bear shifters, lynx shifters, a few wolf shifters."

Aldon leaned back, seeming to think about it, but Archie didn't know what there really was to think about. He was still worried about Zabini, who was Harry's friend_, _but Hannah seemed so in control, and they were offering to help. And all they wanted in return was something that Archie wanted to give them anyway – a seat at the table. "That sounds … really good. I don't think there will be any problem with that at all. Aldon?"

Aldon shot him a glare, but he sighed and nodded, lips pressed together in a tight line. "I would _hesitantly_ agree. I will need proof of your intentions, however, and at this point, we will need to see where things turn. The Ball is a major change, since the Ministry can no longer deny that there is a terrorist in Wizarding Britain. Please take that back to your leader."

"We don't have a leader," Hannah replied, with another quick shake of her head. "The Shifter Alliance is an _alliance_, and we conduct ourselves by consensus. I will take it back, thank you. Both of you."

"And as for Zabini…" Aldon's eyes shifted over to Zabini, frowning slightly. "He is not part of your Alliance, and so..."

Hannah nodded, a solemn gesture, drawing her wand. "You – you want to be sure, of course, that I Obliviate this conversation from his memory. That is not a problem." The look on her face was genuinely regretful as she raised her wand in Zabini's direction.

"Wait." Aldon's voice was sharp, his expression calculating as he looked between them. "That is not what I meant, Hannah. Is there no way for Zabini to _join _your Alliance?"

Hannah paused, lowering her wand. "Not – not immediately. Joining the Alliance is not an easy thing. Blaise would need to present his candidacy, and there would be three – three meetings for discussion where the Alliance could question him, where we would openly discuss whether we would accept him, then a private consensus discussion without him. The process takes, at minimum, five months. And Blaise has never shown interest in presenting his candidacy."

"It's my _family_, Hannah," Zabini said, his face creasing into a frown. "I could never—"

"And I – I will never leave the Alliance, Blaise," Hannah interrupted, her expression pained, but her voice firm. "I'm an _Abbott;_ we are Alliance."

"But when we marry—"

"We'll never marry, Blaise." Hannah's voice was flat, but final. "Not – not if you aren't Alliance. I shouldn't – shouldn't even be seeing you. I had hoped that in time, you would see that and join. But your family gives you everything you could ever want, so – so…"

She shrugged helplessly, and Zabini looked like he had been slapped.

"I see," Aldon intervened, holding a hand up to stop the discussion. "But to ask, Hannah – is this meeting secret from our _other_ allies? Would you work with one of our other allies, in support of a common goal?"

Hannah blinked. "Of course – or, I can't decide that by myself, but I expect we would. But that's different. Blaise – Blaise isn't…"

"He isn't," Aldon confirmed, but he turned and stared pointedly at Zabini. "But I could use someone in his position. I can always use more intelligence from within the SOW Party."

There was a cool silence, as the expression wiped off Zabini's face. He shifted, slightly, in his ropes. "You want me to _spy._"

"Among other things, yes." Aldon half-smiled. "Of course, I'd also expect you to swear your silence on this meeting, among other guarantees. It's either that, or the Memory Charm. I trust Hannah would weave you a very pleasant memory in lieu of this meeting, so I would understand. I wouldn't think very highly of you, but I'd understand."

There was a moment of silence, and Zabini glared at Aldon, his eyes hot with anger.

"You shouldn't have followed me, Blaise." The comment was tiny, barely over a whisper. "You – I wish you didn't follow me. Take the Memory Charm. Please. I'll – I'll give you a great memory, where you'll comfort me after the funerals and we'll – we'll sleep together in it, and you'll be happy. Happier."

Blaise glared at her too, then he shut his eyes, and swallowed. There was another minute, then he blew out a long breath. "I'll swear. I'll swear, and I'll pass you the information. What do you want me to swear on, Blake? My magic?"

Aldon smiled, and there was nothing nice about that smile. "Swear on your mate's life. If she's willing; if not, then your soul. Then, if you betrayed us, she would have to dispose of you, and think of how that would feel."

Hannah's eyes widened. "I – Blaise, please take the Memory Charm instead. Please."

Zabini shot her another look, his chin set. "I won't betray you. I'll swear it on my soul."

Hannah let out a small, high-pitched noise of surprise, her voice sharp as she cut in. "No! No – I'm willing. Have him swear on me. He – he's shifter. He'll struggle a lot more to betray me than you."

Archie stared at Aldon, his eyes wide at Aldon's cruelty. He would never swear something on Hermione's life, and losing a soul was a fate worse than death. The body would remain, breathing, eyes open but there would be nothing in them, and it was always left to the family to _dispose_ of them. And for those who believed in an afterlife, there would be none. "Al, is this really—"

Aldon looked at him, and his face was firm, though he pulled his wand and, with a flick, sent Zabini's ropes unravelling. "Yes, Arch. Zabini is in the SOW Party, which provides both him and his family with substantial benefits. This means that he will be looking for an opportunity to betray us. Whatever protections we've built into _Bridge_, I do not want to test them, and that means taking every opportunity we can to secure our position. An oath is stronger than a Memory Charm, though I am sure that Hannah casts a powerful one."

Archie looked over at Zabini, who was looking away, quietly seething, but he wasn't sure what else to say. He didn't like it, but Aldon had a point – he did not want to see his other friends or allies arrested either. Sedition charges would be that much harder to beat, especially for people like Hermione, or Derrick, or Toby, who weren't purebloods and hadn't been educated at Hogwarts. He knew that, but it didn't make it better.

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I don't like it, Al. I see your point, but I don't like it. I'm very sorry about this, Zabini – I'm sure that means nothing, but I am."

Aldon snorted, disparaging, and a second flick of his wand had a pad of paper and a pen flying into his hands. "We'll have you swear then, Zabini, on Hannah's life, at her request."

He took his time, scribbling lines and crossing them out, while Archie saw that Hannah had pushed her seat away from the table and slipped her hand in Zabini's. She wasn't looking at him, instead watching Aldon's hand fly across the paper, but he was watching her, a soft, pained look in his dark eyes.

It was fifteen long minutes before Aldon was done, putting the pen down and reading it over. He reached the bottom, then he went up to the top and started again, his head cocked to one side in thought, before he nodded and passed the paper to Zabini.

Zabini read it over once, his lip curling slightly to show gritted, white teeth, but he nodded. "Very well," he said, abrupt, standing and pushing his chair back to kneel at Hannah's feet. She held her hands out to him, and he folded his hands in hers.

"I hereby swear, in risk of the life of my mate, Hannah Michelle Abbott, that I shall not pass to any person, body, creature, or entity any news, any information, or anything said, heard, seen, or smelled in this conversation on this thirty-first day of December, 1995 at Grimmauld Place, nor shall I make any mention or reference to said conversation to any person, body, creature, or entity not currently present. I further swear, in risk of the life of my mate, Hannah Michelle Abbott, that I shall henceforth provide relevant and true information to _Bridge _on the actions, proposed actions, or other activity of the SOW Party, particularly as it relates to the ongoing terrorism in Wizarding Britain, to the best of my abilities and as far as I am aware."

He swallowed heavily, Hannah flinched, and even Archie could feel the heavy attention in the air as magic itself took the vow and bound the two of them to it. Aldon nodded, satisfied, and the room was solemn, uncomfortable, almost cold, as Zabini got to his feet and offered his hand to Hannah once more. She took it, unthinking, even if her expression reflected only resigned worry and nervousness.

"I think we ought to be going," Zabini said, his voice coldly polite, nodding towards Aldon and Archie. "Hannah?"

"Yes, sure." She smiled, trembling a little. "I will let you know what the Alliance says."

"_A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, _by Emeric Switch," Aldon said idly, the only one in the room that seemed unaffected by what had happened. "Thirteenth edition, for both of you. Page number, word number. It is best that we communicated entirely in code."

They nodded again, a brief acknowledgement, and Archie saw them through the Floo. When he turned back around, Aldon had his face in his hands. A moment, and he wiped his eyes and brushed his hair back, away from his face and only slightly mussed. His face was poised, unreadable.

Archie studied him. "You're not a very nice person, Al."

Aldon looked up, glancing upwards at the ceiling as if he could burn a hole through it with his hawk-like golden eyes. He didn't reply for a long moment, but eventually, he sighed and looked back at Archie. "I do not think that we have the luxury of kindness, in the times that are coming. But I wish that I could be kind, if only because I think Francesca would value it. Don't tell her about this, if you would."

XXX

"How many times, Hannah?"

They were walking down Diagon Alley, and Hannah had determined that ice cream was a necessity, assuming she could get past the shops and this conversation. Blaise was, as usual, following her. Her body had flinched at his question, but for mates, the body didn't matter that much – she could feel his upset, even though he looked and sounded perfectly calm, and she knew that he felt her resolve and her lack of regret in spite of her flinch.

She didn't like being mated. For some shifters, it was a thing of wonder, having a person that they knew would always be behind them, their partner in anything and everything, a support and a lover and a best friend all in one. It was the stuff of dreams, but for every shifter who had that story, there were three who didn't. Most learned to work with their mates, in time – it was only Hannah Abbott who had the misfortune to have _Blaise Zabini_, wealthy SOW Party near-aristocrat, smarmy know-it-all, as her mate. "How – how many times what, Blaise?"

"Did you Obliviate me," he replied, his voice low. "How many times did you Obliviate me?"

She looked up at him. For all that she outweighed Blaise by a stone, he was taller than her, and her gaze fell back to the cobblestone steps. "Six times. Twice – twice in our fourth year. More – more times this year, because I had more Alliance duties. I always tell you, don't I, when I have to go do something? And not – not to follow?"

"Yes, but—" Blaise fell silent, looking away, to the storefront of Eeylops Owl Emporium. He didn't speak for a moment, and the next question seemed almost to come from nowhere. "Have we slept together?"

Hannah laughed, a little twitter that she couldn't help but let escape, but she clamped down on it quickly when he glared at her. "No – no. I mean – where would we have done it? I – I always thought it weird, that you just accepted those fantasies as real. They – they're pretty weak, because I don't – well, I've never had sex, so I don't even know what to weave. You – you had caught me meeting with an Alliance contact at the Shrieking Shack, that first time, and – and it was the best I could come up with, because why else would we have spent two hours inside the Shrieking Shack? And there was a bedroom, and a bed, so I – I panicked, okay?"

Another silence, and Blaise wasn't looking at her, but there was a bit of a rueful look on his face, and his grip on her hand was warm, firm. "I did always think those memories were a bit odd." Another brief pause. "You are… not what I expected."

Hannah shrugged. People outside the house tended to expect Hufflepuffs to be passive and submissive – someone brave, or clever, or ambitious surely would have one to one of the other houses. Growing up surrounded by family, however, Hannah had always thought practicality and kindness were more useful than any of the other houses' traits. If Blaise didn't see how sensible it was to have a common room anyone could get into, so no first-years or inebriated seventh-years were left out in the cold, so there were no pranks because there was no challenge to it, well, he wouldn't be the only one.

Hannah was a prime example of a Hufflepuff. She was chubby, her face too round, and until last year she had always kept her hair in pigtails. People joked that she didn't know any other hairstyles because she was too stupid, or that it was perfect for her, a little pig with pigtails. Her marks were middling, and Professor Moody had famously yelled at her last year in Defence to just plant her wand and see if something grew from it, because growing a bush would be faster than trying to shield. She liked cookies and ice cream and cake a little too much, and it showed in her waistline. She was twitchy, skittish, not brave or smart or ambitious or important enough to be worth much thought.

But Hannah didn't care what her teachers or classmates thought of her. She was skittish, and she wasn't very clever, and she was pants at duelling, but did it matter that Blaise would triumph in a formal duel against her in seconds when she had Obliviated him six out of six times with him none the wiser? Hannah knew who she was, she had always been who she was, and she had a warren's worth of family and friends who welcomed her with open arms when she came home.

Blaise wanted an answer.

"I – I haven't changed, Blaise," she said finally, without looking at him. Blaise wasn't in her community of family and friends. Blaise was her mate, but he was on the outside, and he didn't really know her or respect her. She had heard the things his friends, other Slytherins, said about her, and Blaise never argued. "You just – you never saw. And I let you believe it, because – because it was easier. You aren't Alliance, Blaise. It's – it's easy to hide in plain sight when you think I'm stupid."

Fortescue's was only a few steps away, and Hannah let them into the shop. Even when it was cold, she couldn't resist ice cream. Old Mr. Fortescue smiled to see her enter, rising from his seat behind the counter, and Hannah ordered herself a large chocolate cone, picking up two of the tiny wooden spoon-like sticks so that she could share. Blaise waved her away when she reached for her wallet, so instead she went to her favourite seat, by the window, where she could watch the people passing by outside. She handed one of her spoons to Blaise when he came to join her.

He took a few bites of her ice cream, but he left most of it for her. He always did.

"I would rather have had the truth," he said, reaching out to grasp her hand. "I have to love you either way, but I would have rather had the choice to know you and develop a relationship with you. Even if it isn't always happy."

She glanced at him, gave his hand a squeeze, and took a bite from her waffle cone. It was sweet, but not too sweet, and he sighed and reached over to break a piece of it off for himself.

XXX

Belgrade was chilly this time of year, but Alex left his window cracked open. The breath of fresh, freezing, air invigorated him in the mornings. There was a dusting of snow on the ground, outside – not as much as he used to seeing at Hogwarts, in the highlands of Scotland, but far more than his mother and grandparents saw in the south of England.

Alex much preferred snow over rain. Snow, he could always brush off, but cold rain sunk into his jacket, into his clothes, bringing a chill that even his dhampir constitution found difficult to shake off. Belgrade in snow was a treat, a white cloak on the mix of old-world estates interspersed with the more modern socialist block buildings. Belgrade was a chaotic mess, a perfect place for The Order to set up its headquarters, which they did in an ancient, sprawling complex a ten-minute walk from the Sava River.

In the Muggle world, they called it a school – a very old, very elitist university that did little by way of research, conducted no tours, and accepted no applications for admission. But with nearly everyone within headquarters appearing between the ages of twenty and forty, it had seemed to the Council many years ago that being a _school_ would provide the appropriate cover in the Muggle world. Alex wasn't so sure, but whatever the Muggle world thought, no one cared enough to investigate so long as the appropriate bribes were paid, and any individual Muggles who climbed over the high outer walls were quickly caught and Obliviated by either their on-staff Stormwings or by Alex himself. Technically, dhampir were neither Muggle nor magical, but something other: they were accepted, in a very general sense, by the magical world, but they were nearly entirely Muggle. Out of a fighting force of nearly two hundred and fifty dhampir, there were only two who were also wizards.

Alex hadn't gotten leave this year for the holiday, and no matter how beautiful Belgrade was under a layer of snow, he would have taken the rain to see his mother and grandparents. It wasn't even that he was on mission, this holiday – Unit 8 had simply been pulled for coverage duty while the other units, those that were not on an active mission, went on leave. At least two units always had to remain in Belgrade on alert, in case of vampire attack.

His mother had offered to fly to Belgrade to see him, but Alex had refused. Madeline Willoughby was known to vampire-kind as the mother of Captain Aleksandr Willoughby Dragić, wizard and dhampir, and Eastern Europe would always be dangerous for her. Any travel into vampire territory necessitated a guard, and over the holidays, they were too short-staffed to manage it. Even as unit captain, he couldn't justifiably order his dhampir on guard duty just to see his mother, no matter what Elodie, his second, said.

But it wasn't as if he was doing much else right now, either. He trained in the mornings, putting his unit through their paces, but let his people off for the afternoon, as much as possible. He had four people on afternoon shift every day running both guard duty and monitoring the city, but otherwise they were free to do as they pleased.

He squinted in the distance, suddenly, picking up a familiar, winged shape. An owl – they didn't get many of those. Even the Stormwings, of whom they tried to keep at least one or two assigned per unit, tended not to receive any mail. Few of them remained in contact with their families, and while their oath ties were stronger than those of blood, the secretive group did not tend to attract people inclined to much talk.

It took him a few seconds to realize that the owl wasn't only flying to Headquarters, but that it was aiming for his window. He flung his window open, letting the eagle owl soar in, dropping a small package on his desk. He didn't recognize the owl; his mother and grandparents had one, of course, a beautiful snowy owl, but this one was unfamiliar. The owl shook itself, hooted at him, and hopped onto the ledge of his window before taking flight once more – no return message needed, apparently.

Alex pulled out his wand for a cursory check of the letter. Vampires did not typically communicate by owl, and the wards should have caught anything sent with malicious intent, but one never knew. He would rather be paranoid than dead.

His spell came back clear, with no hint of anything wrong, so he reached over and pried the package open. There was a letter, on a folded piece of parchment, as well as a vial of memory. He reached for the letter, first, and unfolded it.

_Captain Dragi__ć, _he read, and he blinked. Few people in the wizarding world knew him by that name, or of his position in the Order. He glanced to the end of the letter, checking the name of the author – _Lina Avery_. Beside her name, there was a mark that he would recognize anywhere, a small silver bird with razor wings. Not a sign that most people would know, nor one that anyone would use lightly. Lina Avery was not a Stormwing he recognized, but she was a Stormwing nonetheless. He went back up to the top, reading from the beginning.

_I am not aware of how informed you might be of current events in Wizarding Britain. Briefly, we have a terrorist situation. There have been multiple attacks: on the Hogwarts Express on the first of September, on the Bulstrode family at the end of October, and now there has been an attack on the Ministry-held "Unity Ball"_ _at the end of December. We also have burgeoning unrest – you may be aware that, subsequent to the Arcturus Rigel Black trial, a new paper called Bridge has been making the rounds of Wizarding Britain, advocating for, among other things, widespread emancipation. I believe that our mutual friend, Aldon Blake, once known as Aldon Rosier, is involved._

_The Ministry of Magic has taken little action at present to handle the threat posed. The Ministry Ball was obviously intended to be a trap, but it was poorly executed. The terrorist was able to take the Ministry by surprise, and there were multiple casualties as a result. I expect open war now, between the terrorist, the Ministry, and possibly also the Light faction and Bridge. I write you, therefore, to request a personal favour._

Alex blinked again. A favour? He didn't argue with the analysis – Stormwings were trained to analyse battles and wars as they unfolded, and to plan strategies of attack which, hopefully, led to success without heavy casualties. He had worked with many of them, and he had no reason to doubt that, whoever this Stormwing was, her analysis was correct. He had heard some of the news from Britain, from Aldon in his rare comm orb calls, from his family, and from the one or two copies of _Bridge _he had obtained, but he hadn't paid much attention to it. Compared to his missions cleaning up from the conflict in Bosnia, it just hadn't seemed very important. Even if the situation had deteriorated to the extent that she had described, though, he didn't see how that led to a Stormwing requesting a favour from him.

_Aldon is untrained in combat. You know this as well as I – he has never been strong at offensive magic, and I worry about his ability to survive a war. I enclose the following memory of his last attempt at duelling for your edification. Would you consider taking a brief leave in order to train him? Despite myself, I care for Aldon deeply, and I would rather not see him die in the flames of war._

_I will give you a call on Friday, the fifth of January, to discuss._

Alex set the letter aside, picking up the vial of memory and examining it with a keen eye. The silver liquid was thick, viscous, glittering with bands of sparks. Whoever Avery was, she must care deeply about Aldon to give up a memory, and he was curious. He had little else to do today, and he may as well view it.

He strode out of his quarters. Rikash, the Stormwing and other magic-user attached to Unit 8, was not in his chambers, but Alex found him talking to Barzha and Hebakh, the Stormwings attached to Unit 10, in the library.

"Rikash. Barzha, Hebakh," Alex greeted them with nods. Technically, Stormwings were not under the Order's authority, and they were not sworn to the Order. They were consultants, hired and paid very well for their skills in tactical analysis and assault planning, as well as for providing magical backup on missions. "Would any of you happen to have a Pensieve I could borrow? And have you heard of a Stormwing called Avery? Lina Avery?"

Rikash shook his head, the bone beads he had woven into his blond hair rattling. "No, Captain, on both points. Barzha? Hebakh? More your thing than mine, I imagine."

"I do not have a Pensieve," Barzha said, her words accented with a faded hint of her lost Kurdish. She shifted in her seat, brown eyes thoughtful over an aquiline nose. "I can tell you a little about Avery, though. She finished her Service a year before me, in 1963. I remember when she was at the academy, she was rarely seen out of sight of one of the other trainees, what was his name … I've forgotten. Sandy light brown hair, French. He died during their Service, a year later, and I heard a rumour that she chose her attributes in his memory: duty, tolerance and caution. Not the standard Stormwing choices."

"I was in the same year," Hebakh added, his tenor coldly clinical. He was a nervous man, his eyes always twitching towards the openings of every room. "I was curious about her, so I followed her career for a few years. She took a few contracts in the late sixties and early seventies: one in Russia, another in the Middle East, a high-risk hit in Wizarding Africa. In the mid-seventies, she opened her own firm, Blackthorn, based in France, which provides security analysis work. Most of it is legitimate work for the wealthy, testing the security of their estates, but they've taken on less upstanding work for the right price. You may use my Pensieve, Dragić."

He pushed away from the table, heading out of the library. Alex nodded his thanks to the other two, before following Hebakh to his quarters to retrieve the stone viewing plate. He promised to return the item later, to which Hebakh only shrugged, uncaring, before returning to the library to pass time with his colleagues.

Alex returned to his quarters, setting the Pensieve on his desk. The cork of the vial came off with a flick of his thumb, and he poured it into the Pensieve. The liquid memory rolled in the stone dish, and Alex took a deep breath before plunging his face in.

He fell into a grand room, one that he recognized only by description. The Fountain of Magical Brethren was distinctive, and Alex couldn't help but flash a fang in annoyance. He was part creature, and he couldn't help but see himself just as much in the cowering creatures shown in the fountain as he did in the wizard, the reigning king. They were in the Ministry of Magic.

He turned around, eyeing the witches and wizards floating around him. They were dressed in their finest robes, which meant that it was a formal Wizarding Society event. There was a commotion, in front of him, and he saw the telltale flash of wards going up.

He pushed his way forward through the crowd, almost amused as his body slid through the various witches and wizards in front of him. He was only a ghost from the future, not actually there. At the front of the crowd, where the ward line must have been, he saw Aldon, flanked on one side by brown-haired man in the traditional surcoat of Chinese heirloom-casters, a sword at his waist. He didn't recognize the man, but an heirloom caster with those looks would not be difficult to identify.

At the other end of the warded area stood Rookwood with another man, one that Alex didn't recognize. He stared at Rookwood for a moment, taken aback, then glanced back over at Aldon. Something was wrong here, very wrong, because never would Alex have imagined that Aldon would be standing opposite his oldest and best friend across a formal duelling arena.

It had taken him a moment to recognize it, because as combat-trained as Alex was, he had no formal duelling experience. The setup was clear, open, and Alex couldn't help but wrinkle his nose. While exhibition dueling was dull, of almost no practical use, and not something in which anyone was likely to be injured, Aldon was not a dueller. This could not end well.

An older man walked into the arena, as did both Aldon and the other boy. There were formalities, then Aldon and the other boy bowed to each other, and the spells started flying.

Then Alex swore, a liquid stream of guttural Serbian, because this was no exhibition duel. The unknown boy opened with the Killing Curse, and Aldon let go of a spell, a runic ice shield that he had to have had prepared in advance. The ice caught and shattered, and Alex grimaced.

Aldon was a fool. He didn't even use his wand to defend himself, though he pulled out two runic attacks, an ice spell and a lightning paper charm, in quick succession. Alex heard the other boy casting and swore again as he realized the other boy cast in Old Slavic – unlike Aldon, Alex spoke both Russian and Serbian, and he had some training in Old Slavic. The other boy was Durmstrang-educated, and none of the spells he was casting were _minor _curses.

There was a poison kill-spell that fortunately only scored Aldon across one arm, and Alex gritted his teeth. Did Aldon even know how to block? And where was his _footwork?_ His feet were too slow, and with his Muggle-style formalwear, Aldon should have outstripped the other boy considerably in speed. But instead, the fool was standing there, almost stationary, while the Durmstrang wizard threw spells at him meant to boil his blood, shatter his bones, and curdle his brains. Whoever Durmstrang was, he was Dark.

Aldon was Dark too, but Alex didn't think he knew those curses. Instead Aldon was now firing back pitifully weak spells in return – _Pertus, Depulso, Everte Statum. _The only positive thing Alex could see was that Aldon at least had a shield, now, and he was _finally_ starting to move his feet.

Alex saw the heirloom-caster on Aldon's side of the dueling arena readying his sword, pale and white-lipped, and he hoped against hope that the heirloom-caster would intercede into this horror. Heirloom-casters were all trained from childhood in the fighting arts, and judging by the spells being permitted without comment, this was intended to be a duel to death. If this duel didn't turn, and soon, Aldon would not survive. Not unless he pulled out stronger spells, or more technique or desperation than he had been showing to up until now.

Though Aldon's shield was holding. Alex took a second look at it, his eyes narrowing, then he swore when he realized that it wasn't a shield at all. It was a low-level ward, made faster and without the movement indicative of warding. Aldon had something new on him that gave him a defensive edge. That was something, not that a defensive ward would do much beyond prolong his end, considering his seeming inability to attack with any force.

He had survived, Alex reasoned with himself. He had to have survived, otherwise an unknown Stormwing wouldn't be writing to ask that he be trained.

It didn't make it any easier to watch. Alex spotted weakness after weakness – Aldon was slow, he was panting heavily after too little time, he missed three quarters of the opportunities he had. He had some new magical technique and a few tricks on his side, but it wasn't enough.

He watched as Aldon pulled out a ritual knife, casting a smokescreen to shield him as he did something. Fire roared into existence, ripping across the floor, and Alex sucked in a breath. That was an expensive spell, and if Aldon had gained any advantage by conserving his core and relying on weaker spells and prepared materials, he had now squandered it away.

Durmstrang, fortunately, wasn't particularly good fighter either. He had barely moved from where he had started, despite the fires littering half the floor. It took him far too long to use a spell that broke Aldon's ward, and Alex saw the precise moment he did. There was a solid half minute where Alex stood, watching, tight-lipped, because Aldon was neither attacking nor defending – it was clear as day that he was defenceless, and Alex had no idea how Durmstrang had missed it. Aldon's pulling out of a spent paper charm did nothing to hide his helplessness.

Somehow, though, Durmstrang _had_ missed it, or maybe now he had simply focused his attention on the Unforgiveable Curses. Alex doubted Aldon's ward would hold up to them, in no small part because Aldon himself was _finally_ dodging as well as relying on his ward. The end, when it happened, was pure chance – a kamikaze sprint from Aldon, a slip and fall from Durmstrang, and in Aldon's first display at something approaching competence, his friend had used his forearm and weight to cut off Durmstrang's windpipe and end the travesty.

He couldn't believe he had been _attracted _to Aldon, at one point in time. He wanted to bang his head against the closest wall at his friend's sheer foolishness. Alex could have polished off _either_ him or his opponent in less than a minute, though he would have fallen back on his physical abilities as much as, if not more than, his magic.

The memory didn't end with the end of the duel, however, and he strode forward, watching curiously as Aldon took the opportunity to propose to a very pretty girl. She bolted, a look of horror and betrayal on her face, turning and throwing a torrent of fire at Aldon with a paper charm when he tried to go after her. Aldon survived, if only because the heirloom-caster behind him drew his sword and saved him.

Finally, the memory faded out, and Alex fell out on the floor of his quarters. He pulled himself up with an annoyed, aggravated sigh, running one hand through his messy hair.

Whoever Lina Avery was, she was right. Aldon was not prepared for war – he had won this duel largely through luck and desperation. He did need training, and he likely wouldn't get it of his own free will: he had never liked duelling, and he had too much pride to see his own weaknesses. Alex would have had to drag him through every part of it.

He wished he could consider the favour. He had the leave banked for it, but Unit 8 was due to start a three-month tour in the mountains of Georgia at the end of January, and he had only made Unit Captain recently. His dhampir needed him, and his responsibilities kept him with the Order. He couldn't go haring off to Wizarding Britain, even if it was on the verge of war, even if one of his only friends in the world was involved. Even if, with Rookwood presumably out of the picture, which he was judging by the fact that he was standing on the opposite side of the duelling arena, Alex might very well be one of the only people that Aldon might have allowed to kick him into shape. It wouldn't be responsible for him to do it, no matter what he might want.

A week later, he took Avery's call in one of the offices in the administration building.

"Dragić," he said, short, picking up the telephone. "You must be Avery."

"I am," the woman replied, with a hint of amusement. Her voice was a medium alto, easy on his ears, but Alex thought he could hear the slight undercurrent of danger under it. She was a Stormwing, and all Stormwings who survived had proven themselves dangerous. "You must be Alexander Willoughby Dragić. I am pleased to finally meet you. You enjoyed the memory of my dumbass of a son quite fortunately _not _dying in his latest escapade?"

"Your son?" Alex repeated, surprised, sitting down behind a heavy, wooden desk and leaning back in the office chair. The desk was empty but for the telephone, a pad of paper, and an array of cheap, plastic pens.

"It so happens that within Wizarding Britain, I am known as the Lady Rosier," Avery replied, flippant. "Obviously, he isn't actually my son, though mysteriously he seems to have inherited some of my more reckless traits along with his mother's brains and his father's business sense. Too bad he didn't inherit anything like talent in Defense, though as you could see from my memory, he does have a certain something."

"He nearly died," Alex said flatly, looking around the bland room. The Order didn't give anyone their own offices, since they were often away on missions, but rather there were a series of offices available to any dhampir who needed to do work. Few dhampir used them – only unit captains, their seconds, occasionally Stormwings. The Council were the only dhampir to have their own offices, in a separate wing, for their work. "He won by sheer luck, Lady Rosier."

"I prefer Lina. Lina Avery. And be fair to him – he did go in with a few tricks, and he was desperate. And he must have known, or guessed, that Lestrange was not a strong dueller." Avery paused, and Alex thought he could hear something else in the background over her connection – something mechanical. "Christie, what is with your coffee machine? Sorry about that, Dragić. I'm trying to get myself a cup of mediocre coffee. Have you considered my request?"

Alex turned to look out the window, a small one looking out onto the dhampir training grounds. It was busy, because the training grounds were usually busy, dhampir and Stormwings both keeping themselves in shape. "I have, and I do wish I could help. Unfortunately, my unit is committed to a three-month mission tour in Georgia beginning next month – I am unable to request leave now. Perhaps this summer."

Lina made a thoughtful noise on the other side, and Alex heard another woman's voice in the background, explaining something about the machine in question. "A three-month mission tour – for anything specific, or just the usual patrol, identification, and extermination campaign?"

Alex blinked, looking back at the black rotary phone on the table. "The usual campaign, but nonetheless, I am captain and one of our two magic users – I could hardly leave my unit for the campaign."

"Who is your assigned Stormwing? And your second?" Lina asked, and there was another noise of whirring, and a beep. "I completed my Service with the Order, Dragić, as well as a few tours every now and then – I know the command structure, as well as many of the captains and their seconds."

Alex paused for a moment, thinking it over, but it was true that most Stormwings took some tour or other with the Order. The Order always had work, they kept on contract nearly a quarter of all Stormwings worldwide, and Stormwings tended to know each other by reputation, if not by name. And the unit captains and their seconds were often well known. "Our Stormwing is Rikash Moonsword, and my second, Elodie Pepin Vasilova."

"I know Elodie. She's very experienced, though I would have thought she would be Unit Captain by now. We served together in my Service. You can confirm that with her, if you like." Lina hummed, and Aldon blinked again – there was always the possibility that she was lying to gain his trust, but it was also true that Elodie was very experienced and quite a lot older than Alex. That was why she had been assigned as his second – the Council was of the view that her experience would balance him well, and Alex would trust her with his life. He would confirm with her, though, to be sure.

"I will pass your regards onto her, if you like," Alex said, cordial. "But as you can appreciate…"

"No, wait." Lina cut in, with a click of her tongue on her teeth. "What if I replaced you, for the tour? Have Elodie lead your campaign in Georgia, and I will take your place as second magic-user. Moonsword has a good reputation – he chose _compassion_ as one of his attributes, so I am confident that I can work with him. You take a leave and train our dumbass son so he might actually survive what comes. I'll pay you for it, on top of taking the tour. Name your price."

Alex paused. "You want me there very badly."

There was silence on the other end, but Alex was content to wait. Offering to take his tour was no small thing, particularly since she wouldn't be paid for it, and offering to pay him more on top of it spelled desperation.

"You know Aldon, Dragić." Lina snorted finally. "He doesn't take advice well, and he's smart enough that he's gotten away with it thus far. This latest escapade is likely to embolden him, since he did win, and he doesn't know enough fighting to know that he revealed the exact extent of his pitiful, practically non-existent duelling skill to his enemies, as well as his friends."

"I do know him." Alex stared up at the ceiling – the administration building was nowhere near as nice as the rest of the Order's campus, with the barracks and other living spaces being far nicer. It was a Soviet block, cold concrete barely hidden by the soft furnishings within. He still didn't think that he could get away, but she made a good argument. "Does Aldon know?"

"Does Aldon know what?"

"Does he know what you are? He has never mentioned it to me." The ceiling was thin, pockmarked with small black spots. Alex thought he could probably break through them if he tried. Either a defensive weakness, or if they thought a little more creatively, a useful escape or attack route. "Or that you are making this request of me."

There was another pause on the other end, and he thought he heard someone offering Lina milk and sugar. "No. He knows neither what I am, nor that I am calling you. He is currently out – he likes to work late, much like his father. Should you accept, it is likely better if you show up as a surprise and simply force him along with whatever your plan might be. We'll give you whatever you need, as long as Aldon figures out some survival instinct. Keys to the penthouse, a place to stay, an unreasonable salary… What do you want?"

Alex laughed – he didn't laugh often, and it came out rusty, a little rough around the edges. "You _are_ desperate."

"Obviously."

Alex laughed again, looking back out the window. Lina was right in her analysis of Aldon, to Alex's experience, and it wasn't that she hadn't come up with anything he had expected. He did not like the idea of Aldon heading into wartime with the amount of fighting expertise that he had shown in his duel, and he admitted that leave, even if it was to train an ungrateful fool, would be nice. He wouldn't be able to get Aldon active for more than a half-day every day, he expected, which meant he would also be able to see his mother and his grandparents. And he could see the situation in Wizarding Britain for himself, ensure that his mother and grandparents were safe. And convince them to move farther abroad, if they weren't. His mother would fight him on it, no doubt, but his father would have expected it of him.

Alex barely remembered his father, but they were words burned into his memory. Every time Drago Horvath Milosević had gone on mission, he had kneeled down and told Alex, very seriously, to take care of his mother. And Alex would.

It came down to higher level approvals. Lina had offered to take his place on tour, with Elodie leading Unit 8. It was not a bad proposal – Alex had no delusions that he was Unit Captain largely because of his status as both a dhampir and a wizard, and Elodie had far more experience than he did. He had been working cooperatively with her for a half-year, and she would care for the unit as well as he did with strong magical backup. And it was only a patrol tour, nothing complicated. He shouldn't go, not so soon after he made Unit Captain but perhaps if the Council approved it as an exceptional circumstance, it could work.

"I'll put in a request with the Council," Alex said reluctantly, leaning forward in his chair. "If it's approved, I'll call you. What's your number?"

XXX

"So, there's that," Lina said, hanging up the phone in Christie's kitchen and reaching for the mug of coffee that the woman had poured for her. She looked over at Christie – lank brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, and her expression was worried and upset.

Lina had always liked Christie – far more than she liked Evan, if she were honest. Christie was a good woman, kind and loving, and Evan had never deserved her. Evan was a coward, Christie all too trusting, and together they made a recipe for pain. Even after Aldon was born and Christie had done the only sensible thing in the entire relationship and broken it off, she had never truly moved on. Lina would have liked to see the woman meet someone else, have someone else fill her life in the same way, but for Christie, there was never anyone like Evan. They had been having relapses into their relationship for years, and as annoying as it was, Lina fully blamed Evan for it. Evan had a silver tongue, and he could be incredibly convincing when he tried. And when it came to Christie, he tried.

Evan should have told all of Wizarding Society to go fuck itself and married her. They had been together a dozen years before Lina had come into the picture, and Evan considered Christie the love of his life. He did as much as he could for her – the penthouse around them spoke to his generosity, and he had always sheltered her with his political reputation, keeping her hidden and safe. But he wouldn't risk his position in Society, or his wealth, for her.

When Lina had been given Aldon, Christie's eyes tearful and broken as she sprinkled a dozen little kisses over her baby's face before handing him over, Evan had promised that he would give Aldon the world. Lina, in turn, had sworn to hold him to it – Aldon would have the damn world, if she had to rearrange things to make it happen. Then, after Christie had left, sobbing the entire way, she had turned to Evan and told him flat out that if it ever came to a question of Aldon and Christie or him, she would pick them. Every time, she would pick them.

He had, remarkably, agreed. And told her to do what she needed to do to keep them happy and safe.

"Are you sure?" Christie fretted, turning to the coffeemaker to pour herself her own mug. Her hands trembled. "It's going to be war, and I don't know this Dragić fellow. I'd rather have you here with us, Eveline."

"This is more important, Christie," Lina said, lifting the mug to her lips. "You don't know Aldon as well as I do – the list of people who might have the ability to force him through boot camp, that I know of, are Edmund Rookwood and Alexander Willoughby Dragić. Of the two, I prefer Dragić – he's dhampir, they're trained in defense nearly from birth."

"What about you?" Christie was adding two sugars and cream to her coffee, which Lina always thought destroyed the flavour of it. "Couldn't _you_ train him? Tell him what you are?"

Lina snorted. The coffee was delicious, and it was just like Christie to keep expensive coffee that she didn't even like in the hopes of pleasing her guests – Aldon most likely in this case. "Me? Christie, I won every distant mother award in the books. Aldon doesn't even like me. I could tell him, but he wouldn't listen to me. Aldon trusts Dragić, so Dragić can talk sense into him that I can't."

Christie let out another worried sigh. "Well, if you think it's best…"

"I do." Lina took a drink of her coffee, tasting the heavy, dark, bitter flavours with pleasure. "Where did you get these beans? I want some."

It took a week for Dragić to get approval, and another week for the appropriate details to be ironed out. Despite Lina offering him whatever he wanted on a silver platter, whatever it was in the Rosier power to give, the dhampir had only asked for a minor stipend, naming a price that was not only very reasonable, but was far less than what Lina would have charged for a three month extermination campaign. But, she supposed, since she was also providing her services for free, perhaps he was still doing better than her.

"Are you sure about this, Eveline?" Evan asked, hovering in the doorway as she pulled out a heavy wooden trunk from underneath her bed. Aldon had never come into her rooms, not that she was often in Britain anyway. She had trained him very early on not to enter them and she didn't think that the thought had ever occurred to him since.

"Why wouldn't I be sure?" Lina asked, flipping open the lid of her trunk. "You want your son to survive. This gives him the best chance of it."

There was an array of things within the trunk that Aldon, and most of Wizarding Society, would have gaped at. She glanced through, finding a pair of jeans, a loose crewneck t-shirt, and a leather jacket with lots of padding, and tossed them on her bed. She would put those on for the flight, and she pulled out another three sets of Muggle clothing – that would be enough. A Muggle passport, from the _République Française _came flying out as well, along with a driver's license, a debit card and a credit card. She smiled a little at the last two – Étienne had helped her set up much of her Muggle identity, and it had been the early sixties. The bank had refused to give her, a woman, a credit card until he slammed his hand on the desk and said that he was her _husband_, and if they would give him one then they ought to give her one, so that she could go buy their groceries, thank you. It was an outright lie and they had had to Obliviate the poor Muggle after, but she had kept the accounts out of convenience, under the name _Lina Ducharme_.

She pulled out her crossbow, checking it over professionally, and set it on the bed. There was no better way to stake a vampire from a distance than with a crossbow. The gears needed oiling and the bowstring needed replacing, but it was in better condition than she had expected, given it had been sitting in her trunk unused for two decades. After the crossbow came two guns – not machine guns, which jammed and misfired too often in magical environments, but large-calibre handguns with her specially made bullets that didn't fall quite as far off course in magical environments as commercial bullets did. She popped open the lid of the box holding her bullets – there weren't many of them, and she would need to cast more when she got to Serbia.

Evan sighed, but he didn't argue with her. He had long since learned not to argue with Lina, and his job in their partnership was to cover her tracks and keep her secrets, as she kept his. And he would – Evan was a coward, but he was a master of lies, and if it was necessary to protect his family, Evan would build an ironclad cover story for them. "Be careful, won't you? With the Lord Voldemort situation, we need you here, at home."

Lina looked up at him, considering, noting her long-time friend's brow was creased in worry. She had a great many problems with Evan; he was a coward, and his treatment of Christie left much to be desired. But on the other hand, she also knew how deeply he loved both Christie and his son, and how hard he worked to ensure that they had every material need or desire they had satisfied. Penthouses in Marylebone were not cheap, nor was the security firm he paid to keep Christie safe. Nor were the bribes he paid to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement trackers to keep them providing innocuous and pitiful reports of Aldon's less than kosher activities to the Ministry, that his son could continue to fly under the radar.

Evan Rosier had simply placed his role as a provider and protector above his role as a lover and a father. With his reputation and place in Society, telling Society to go fuck itself would have impinged on his ability to protect and provide as conservatives withdrew their investments from his company, as they hesitated over his contracts and cut their deals with him. Evan traded much on his reputation and goodwill, and so much of that was tied into the regime of pureblood supremacy. He considered the money and support he could provide, as an upstanding pureblood in Wizarding Society, to be more valuable than living true to himself, and to Christie and Aldon.

It wasn't a decision that Lina _liked_, but it was a decision that she could understand. She had done worse. She had entered a fake marriage to preserve her wizarding identity, her status and her family's reputation. After her Service, she had had enough loss; she hadn't wanted to be thrown out of her family, much as she disliked them. She had come home, grieving, until the marriage question reared its ugly head again, when she left and took contracts, one after another, but always coming home. Then it would happen again, and off she would fly, and for years she had been torn, not knowing where to be, who to be or what duties to fulfill. Until Evan had swooped in and handed her the perfect solution.

She had a very happy life, and Evan was a big part of that. She might have problems with him, but she owed him, and he wanted Christie and Aldon to be protected. And she would do what she needed to make sure that they were, and that Aldon would have everything for which Christie had once given him up.

"You had the wards refreshed recently," she said, not a question but a firm statement. "Riddle is still hale, and the Ministry is at open war. Dumbledore has said that he and his faction will not stand for wanton violence – for once in the last half-century, they may actually be on the same side. It isn't perfect, by all means, but it is better I go now than six months from now. If there are any issues that can't wait for me, call Alastor Moody. Give him my name – my Stormwing name – and tell him everything. He'll laugh his ass off, but he chose _righteousness_ as an attribute and he's a halfblood, so he'll help you, and not for too dear a price. As for Aldon, trust Dragić. It's no small thing for a dhampir to request leave, especially a unit captain, and they're sworn to protect the weak. Keep your head down, Evan, and remember what we talked about."

He nodded, slowly, his mouth a grim line. He knew, and she nodded in reply. "I'll go set the groundwork for your cover story. Formally, you're restructuring our Romanian subsidiaries because they've been bleeding money for years."

"Sounds dull," Lina muttered absently, ignoring Evan as he left and turning back to her wooden trunk. At the very bottom, she pulled out a ritual dagger, carved with the runes that permitted easy channelling.

_Étienne. _She could just see him in her mind's eye, brushing sandy hair out of his face as he drew his dagger, _this _dagger, a pissed off look on his face as he plunged after her in combat, scars lining both of his bare arms. He was her best friend through her Mastery in France, then Stormwing training; a halfblood trained at Beauxbatons, where alongside magic, he had learned rage.

_My blood spends as well as yours_, he had always said, flipping the dagger. _Halfblood or not, my blood speaks for itself._

They were crazy – crazier than most people who attempted Stormwing training. There was Lina, desperately running from her obligations, and there was Étienne, desperately running to prove that he wasn't _lesser, _seven years of abuse at Beauxbatons haunting him. There was nothing romantic about the two of them, but something else, something more, the bonds of shared discontent and insanity linking them. She would have died for him, as he would have for her.

He did die for her.

She took the knife and tossed it on the bed alongside her other necessities to be packed. Blood magic could be useful.

XXX

_AN: Wow, I think that might be all the secrets I've been hiding for like two novels? But look everyone, it's Alex! Who is happy to see Alex back? I'm happy he's back, if only because he's crazy in a very particular sort of way which I enjoy. Thanks as always to meek (who was only barely convinced to let me keep his phone conversation with Lina, because apparently most long phone conversations in fiction somehow turn into sex), and to the usual round of subject matter experts! Please leave me a comment or review, though I don't think this chapter is very good at engendering screamin (you will scream enough later, I promise)._

_Next Chapter: __Take me from this world / Save me / What if we all die young? (Worth Dying For, by Rise Against)_


	14. Chapter 14

Things were different after winter break.

There were the obvious signs – the Hogwarts Express was heavily guarded going north, with one Auror stationed every five or six compartments. The _Daily Prophet_ was exploding with information about the terrorist and his followers.

The so-called Voldemort was a halfblood, or a Muggleborn. He had never gone to Hogwarts – no one at Hogwarts around his age remembered him – and his brand of fanaticism would never have been tolerated at Hogwarts. The Daily Prophet wasn't sure where he _had_ gone for schooling – possibly an American or Australian school – but it certainly wasn't Hogwarts. It was also possible he had gone nowhere for schooling, not being wealthy enough to go abroad or intelligent enough to win a scholarship, and he never completed any homeschooling curriculum in Britain, either. He was an angry nobody lashing out against society, and regrettably certain other dissatisfied parties had been drawn into his action. _Bridge_ had likely acted as a nexus, pulling together the most dissatisfied elements of Wizarding British society, giving the so-called Voldemort a free field to recruit members for his crazed organization.

Draco was not convinced. He should have been convinced – this was the _Daily_ _Prophet_, and the _Daily_ _Prophet_ was the most important and upstanding paper in Wizarding Britain. It carried award-winning journalism, and it was acknowledged every year by the Ministry and a consortium of Wizarding British publications for its contributions. It was a critical news source for Wizarding Britain, and it could not have become such if it lied.

But it also didn't make any sense_,_ and Draco knew it. He remembered the pamphlets that had been tossed on the train in September, and the words of the so-called Voldemort just didn't reflect the words carried by _Bridge_. _Bridge _was a paper that promoted blood equality and widespread emancipation – idealistic and unrealistic bleeding heart nonsense that even the Light faction had never fully supported – and carried reports from the Muggle British Parliament and the International Confederation of Wizards. It published Muggle book and film reviews, though Draco still didn't know why anyone would read them. _Bridge _never promoted violence, instead only raising ideas, and even if Draco wholeheartedly disagreed with those ideas and thought it was absolute rubbish, it was a very different kind of rubbish than the so-called Voldemort had produced.

Millicent snorted when she read the _Daily Prophet_ now, her anger evident even to those who didn't have his gift, and Blaise, too, exuded a different sense. Blaise still smiled, he still joked and teased and he _acted_ very much the same, but his feelings were something else entirely. Over the past two and a half years, Draco had gotten used to a sort of gentle amusement from him, with occasional hints of disapproval or, where Abbott was involved, yearning mixed with joy. Now, Blaise carried a sharp focus combined with iron determination, and he was more likely to be annoyed than amused. Even with Abbott, the notes of joy were gone, replaced by soft uncertainty, though if anything the two of them were even _more _sweet and sickly in person than they had ever been. It was as if they thought they only had these few moments, these few months, these few years to be together, as if they expected the other to be torn from their grasp the minute they looked away. Blaise was a fixture at her side at the Hufflepuff table now, and whatever their problems had been before the break seemed to have been resolved and replaced with simple desperation.

Draco had caught them, lips locked and kissing madly, in one of the empty classrooms one day. Blaise had been sitting on a desk, Abbott standing between his knees, and one of his hands was sunk deep into her blonde hair. The other cupped the small of her back, trending lower, and Draco didn't need to get a closer look to know that her hands were _certainly_ inside his robes.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat loudly, and they sprung apart, Abbott's hair in disarray and her lips swollen, while Blaise hurriedly straightened his clothing. Draco pointedly looked into one corner of the classroom, away from his friend and his friend's mate. "I am walking into this classroom, and I have not seen _anything_ unusual that I, as a prefect, would need to discuss with anyone, but I do suggest taking this somewhere a little more private than an empty classroom off the Great Hall."

Abbott giggled, a little out of breath. "Of – of course. I really have to go, Blaise. Thank – thank you for explaining the Transfiguration assignment to me."

"Be careful, Hannah," Blaise replied, his voice slow and concerned. He wasn't speaking as if from a script, his worry genuine. He smoothed down a lock of her hair.

She nodded, gave him a trembling sort of smile, and disappeared out the door.

Draco came into the classroom, leaning against a desk as he faced his friend. Blaise didn't speak, his eyes fixed in the direction that Abbott had gone.

"You have time," Draco chided his friend gently. "A lifetime of time. You can take it slow – you don't need to do everything with her now, particularly not somewhere where you'll shock the underclassmen. Are you even engaged, yet?"

Blaise shook his head and gave him a tight smile of his own, though Draco felt a stabbing sadness coming from him. "No." A pause. "Things became clearer to me during the holidays – shifter politics are proving to be a greater obstacle than I had previously imagined. Suffice it to say, Hannah and I, we are somewhat akin to the Romeo and Juliet of shifterkind."

Draco blinked. "The who?"

"Ah – it's a Muggle play from the early 1600s. Not well known, among wizards, even if it did include what was obviously a Draught of Living Death." Blaise looked up to the ceiling, his dark eyes considering. "Perhaps Tristan and Isolde will be a better reference for you?"

Draco paused to think, but he nodded – he was familiar with the tale, though it was a very old one, and he didn't remember the details. Somehow, the love that Blaise and Abbott shared was a forbidden one, and Blaise wasn't sure they would ever be able to be together, not publicly so. He rested one hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You'll work it out," he said, shaking his head slightly. "You're smart, and you love her. If you were Gryffindors, the Headmaster would already be meddling to see that you both got Head Boy and Girl for our seventh year."

Blaise laughed, a small chuckle that somehow felt sad. "If I don't fuck it all to hell, anyway."

It was unlike Blaise to swear, but Draco let it go. Clearly his friend was under stress, and in the current circumstances, Draco couldn't even blame him. It seemed like the terrorist was weighing heavily on everyone's minds.

Draco and Pansy hadn't been at the Ball when the attack happened. They, and most of the people they knew, had been sent home before the wards for Blake's ill-advised duel to the death had gone up.

"It's not an appropriate thing for you to see, Draco," his father had told him sternly, motioning for him to take Pansy out of the Ball. "And certainly not for Pansy. You must take her home."

Pansy had been terrified, heavy waves of it rolling off her. "Aldon can't duel," she had said, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual, even if her face was calm and her tone was even. "Aldon doesn't know how to duel. We have to stop this, somehow."

His father had fixed her with a calm, steady gaze. "Only Blake and Lestrange can decide what comes next," his father said finally, and Draco knew it was true. He, too, had been taught about formal duels of honour as a child. Once challenge had been issued, only the duellers and their seconds could back down. It wasn't just a matter of honour, but a magical rite as well. He even knew that _Pansy_ knew it, but she was looking for a way out, _any_ way out, for her childhood friend.

The news they had awoken to was worse. Pansy had heard from her father, after she had stayed up most of the night waiting, that Blake had survived his duel through much luck, and he had taken the opportunity to swear himself to the Muggleborn girl who had come with him to the Ball – the one that Draco remembered mostly being scared and anxious the entirety of their short conversation. It was a perversion of one of their oldest and most romantic rites, that Blake had the audacity to use it to propose to a nobody Muggleborn girl, but some part of Draco felt that he had to respect him for it. It was a resourceful, ambitious move showing exactly why Blake had once been sorted into Slytherin House. He could admit that he had gone to bed slightly pleased that Blake had survived, though he wondered if he ought to have felt such a sentiment.

But the lists of the dead had come out that morning, and Draco had grimaced to see Augustus Rookwood on it. He couldn't say that he was _very_ close to the Rookwoods, but Edmund Rookwood was a friendly acquaintance, if not a friend, so of course he had needed to go and pay his respects in person at the funeral. Edmund's face had been heavy with sorrow, and he accepted Draco's condolences with little more than a stiff nod. Instead, Alesana had thanked him graciously on both of their behalves, exchanging a small hug with him as she accepted his card.

"I apologize for Edmund," Alice had said, murmuring in his ear. "We are... overcome with grief. His father was so young."

"I understand," Draco had replied, and he did. The feelings coming off the both of them were overwhelming, almost more than Draco could stand, and he hadn't been able to go anywhere near Rookwood's mother. Instead, he had gripped Pansy's hand and anchored himself to her own wavering emotions for the entirety of the ceremony, to keep himself from completely falling apart in public. It was, fortunately, the only funeral he had had to attend in person, though he had helped his mother with her formal correspondence expressing sorrow for the others.

For the first time as long as most could remember, Lord Riddle and Dumbledore were on the same side. Both Lords had rallied their people, agreeing to hold set aside their other differences until the resolution of the _civil unrest_, as they were calling it.

"The so-called Voldemort is a threat to all of us," Lord Riddle had said, reading off prepared remarks in the Wizengamot. "He does not respect our institutions; he does not respect our law. Rather than push for his ideas openly, he resorts to violence. While we might have many disagreements among ourselves, the rule of law is our foundation, and the so-called Voldemort will not respect that. All witches and wizards across Wizarding Britain must stand against him and his followers, and any information about either him or his followers should immediately be provided to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"I thank the SOW Party for their words," Dumbledore had added, standing up on that same day to provide the remarks of the Light faction, and even his public avoidance of Lord Riddle's given name, which Dumbledore was wont to use in the Wizengamot, had shown that they stood together on this issue. "We are only as strong as we are united, weak as we are divided. We remain vehemently opposed to the Save Our World party in many, if not most, respects, but in these times of turmoil it is appropriate to hold these other matters in abeyance. The space for dialogue exists only so long as our institutions are protected. In the matter of the so-called Voldemort, we are in agreement that his actions should be condemned, and he and his followers brought to justice."

Only _Bridge _had any contrary view, taking the opportunity to attack the Ministry, the Wizengamot, and the _Daily Prophet_. It was plastered on the front page of _Bridge_ a week after the remarks in the Wizengamot.

_While the editors of this paper are appreciative of both the SOW Party and the Light faction's remarks on the current terrorist situation, it in no way detracts from the past several months of inactivity. The so-called Voldemort has been active in Wizarding Britain more than a year; as early as the 1994 Quidditch World Cup, there was an attack on Wizarding British soil, and attacks continued through the Triwizard Tournament. As noted in our front-page release on November 17, 1995, there is strong evidence linking not only these attacks, but the attack on the Hogwarts Express and on the Bulstrode Mansion on Halloween to Voldemort._

_The Ministry and the Wizengamot's repeated reassurances that there was nothing of concern, that these incidents were merely a string of "copycat incidents", has put us all at risk. These previous actions are not ones that the public should forget. _

_Despite the comments made by both the Light faction and the SOW Party encouraging unity, there is no evidence that these platitudes are anything more than sentiment. Bridge encourages the Ministry to act on their words and begin a dialogue with other overlooked segments of society, particularly, internationally trained halfbloods and Muggleborns, and to work together for a resolution to the terrorist issue._

_Bridge categorically denies any and all connection to the so-called Voldemort. Bridge is an association of persons from many different parts of Wizarding British society: halfbloods, Muggleborns, and purebloods, some of whom attended Hogwarts and many of whom did not. Bridge stands wholeheartedly in support of blood equality and further integration with both our Muggle neighbours and the international community, as evidenced by our weekly columns on the happenings of the Muggle British Parliament, on the International Confederation of Wizards, and on current Muggle culture. Based on the information available thus far, Voldemort is a pureblood supremacist singing a line only a little more extreme than the SOW Party itself._

_We encourage our readers to take all reasonable precautions for their safety, to cooperate with the Ministry and to provide any information known about the so-called Voldemort and his followers to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. However, in so saying, we also encourage all our readers to remember and to reflect on the steps that have brought Wizarding Britain to this point and to advocate peacefully for change._

The piece was signed off by what looked like a full roster of writers for _Bridge_. _Chimaera_ and _otter_ were there, as was _kelpie _and _dachshund_, _simba_ who wrote the Muggle culture columns, _trout_ who covered the Muggle British Parliament, _griffin_ who reported primarily on International Confederation of Wizards. There were even names there that he had never seen before, _hawk_, _rabbit _and _wolf_ among them. A long list of pseudonyms, which shouldn't have meant anything to Draco since they couldn't even put their _names _to their beliefs, but somehow the columns of names had force.

The _Daily Prophet_ published a response to the _Bridge _statement a week later, though it never once referred to the other paper, only instead to _certain comments_ which had been made by _certain members _of the wizarding community. Prior to the attack on the Ministry Unity Ball, it had not been certain that there was an active terrorist threat in Wizarding Britain. It could have been a series of copy-cat incidents, since the attacks were, until last September, separated by months of time. Nothing had been certain, and there had been no need to alarm the whole of Wizarding British society. Further, widespread panic and alarm would have made it more difficult for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to investigate and control the situation, and the _Daily Prophet _had acted appropriately in only reporting on the news that could have been verified at the time. The _Daily Prophet_ was the foremost leader in news for Wizarding Britain and had a responsibility to its readers to publish only information which could be verified.

It made sense. Draco might not fully believe the _Daily Prophet_'s words on Voldemort and his followers, but the explanation of why they not reported on it previously was one that made sense. The _Daily Prophet _was the most trusted news source in Wizarding Britain, and there was no conclusive evidence before the Ministry Unity Ball. Unnecessary panic was in no one's interests, and some measure of secrecy had to be allowed for the government to do its work.

Millicent didn't see it that way.

"They were just trying to keep everyone safe, Millie," he argued, holding up the paper when she brought it up. "They couldn't have been sure, nothing was sure, and they didn't want to cause a panic. A panic wouldn't have been helpful to track them down."

Her nostrils flared, and her dark eyes glittered dangerously. "And my cousins and aunt were worth the price of that secrecy?"

"I'm not saying that," Draco said, backpedalling quickly and trying to figure out how to say what he _wanted _to say in a way that she would understand, that wouldn't offend her. "I mean – I understand that you're upset, and you're right to be. But there is an explanation, and it isn't an unreasonable one. We should hold together in times like these."

Millicent snorted, closed her book, and stood up. They were in the Slytherin Common Room, in a corner. They weren't talking loudly, but her words seemed to echo anyway. "I don't accept that explanation," she said flatly. "And I am shocked that you do. We're done, Draco. I have nothing left to say to you."

She walked away, heading to the sliding entranceway that would take her to the rest of the school. Blaise wasn't there either, no doubt off with Abbott somewhere.

"Very smooth, Dray," Pansy said, looking up from her Arithmancy, a coolly amused glint in her eye.

He sighed, setting the paper down. "Was I wrong, Pans?"

His fiancée tilted her head, thinking about it, and eventually shook her head. "I don't know. But you oughtn't have raised it with her. She's still hurting."

"I just…" Draco sighed again, pulling out his Defense textbook to work. Umbridge had been pulled from school, needed for several high-level prosecutions, and replaced by a sharp, intelligent Auror named Shafiq. "I worry she's getting into the wrong crowd, Pans. She's falling for everything _Bridge _says."

Pansy made a noncommittal sort of noise, flipping the page of her textbook. "Just leave her alone, Dray. Let her work things out for herself."

Millicent didn't speak to him again. He had thought that maybe she just needed some time for things to blow over, but she had meant it when she said she had nothing left to say to him. From that point onwards, her meals were taken with an array of her other friends, the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors with whom she shared her International Relations and Wizarding Law classes.

The only good part, Draco thought sourly, was that it would be over soon. With the attack on the Unity Ball, the so-called Voldemort and his followers had come out into the open and had provided enough evidence for the Ministry to track them down and prosecute them. The Lord Parkinson himself was serving as the lead witness against several witches and wizards, including the Lady Bellatrix Lestrange, Lord Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov. They hadn't arrested the so-called Voldemort yet, but they would, and it was only a matter of time.

And things would go back to normal, or as normal as things ever were, without Rigel with them.

XXX

Caelum hated everything.

He hated Aldon Blake, formerly Rosier, his disgusting halfblood bastard cousin who didn't know his place. It was unfortunate that Blake was still related to the Rosiers by blood, because it meant that Caelum could not cut this connection off from himself, not truly. He and Blake shared blood, and the feeling that gave him made his skin crawl. He wanted to cut open his veins and command that every particle he shared with Blake disappear, and if he didn't think that this might kill him, he might have attempted it.

He hated that Blake hadn't just taken his insult in stride. Every other halfblood would have let it lie – even Harry Potter, who would have commented on it, would have ultimately let it go with only words. No other halfblood, or possibly pureblood, would have called him onto the field of honour over a simple _comment_.

His words were even _true_. Blake's mistress was barely a step up from an animal – her accent and dress made it clear just how poorly she was aping her betters. She didn't even have a wand, not that Caelum had been able to see. He was only saying what most of Society was thinking – he was not the only one to think so, and him saying so openly at least let Blake know that this was what his former compatriots thought of him.

And Blake had dared to call a duel over it, instead of accepting it and doing what was proper: getting himself and precious Muggleborn mistress out of Society.

There was Blake, but there was also his mother, Bellatrix Lestrange. Even at the end of the duel, when Caelum knew he had lost, his hatred for his mother had still easily eclipsed his hatred for Blake. This, he considered, made quite a lot of sense – he hated Blake for the events of one night, but he hated his mother for his entire lifetime.

Caelum would have _vastly_ preferred withdrawing the insult over duelling, and he would have done so, if his blasted _mother _had not gotten involved. They were only words, and Caelum had not really cared to duel over them. Like all Durmstrang students, Caelum had a grounding in attack and defensive magic, freeduelling, and the Dark Arts, but he had never enjoyed these subjects. They reminded him too much of his mother, who would have no doubt adored those classes, and Caelum had preferred to lock himself in the Potions laboratories as much as humanly possible. He hadn't wanted to duel Blake, and he had been relying on making a silent, honourable exit through the negotiation of seconds, the agreements for which were never publicly disclosed.

But then his dear mother had gotten involved, and those plans had turned to dust. The best possible offer he had been able to give, with her vicious pleasure and excitement hissing in his ears, had been an offer for Blake to withdraw his challenge, no questions asked. Rookwood had thought he could convince Blake to accept, so off he had gone, while Caelum hoped, for both their sakes, that Blake would accept.

He hadn't. Instead, Rookwood had come back with a blank expression, only shaking his head when Caelum asked. And Caelum had had to fight a duel, and Blake had had several prepared runic charms and some new type of shielding that blocked almost all of Caelum's spells. Blake had even had a ritual knife, and he had been prepared to draw it and _use _it, invoking his own blood to set the arena on fire.

If it were not for those things, Caelum thought he could have won. But Blake had had both them and a streak of luck on his side, and the Dark Arts that Caelum had learned at Durmstrang and at his mother's feet had not stood up to a simple tackle and forearm pressed against his throat. Blake hadn't killed him, but he had done worse: he had taken his wand, and a life debt in front of a thousand notables of Wizarding British Society.

It was _humiliating_.

Caelum had gotten out of the cursed Unity Ball as soon as he could after that, shaking Rookwood off as the man tried to Heal him. He didn't need Rookwood's Healing, Caelum was perfectly capable of Healing himself, and off he had gone to do it. He had been surprised that his mother hadn't followed, looking to punish him for his loss, but he hadn't looked further into it, too grateful to get out to bother.

It turned out, of course, that his mother was simply ignoring him in favour of bigger plans involving an attack on Wizarding Britain. Caelum had woken up to the news of the attack, and he had barely had time to begin contemplating the likely future he had as the son of a known terrorist over a cauldron of Draught of Peace, when Blake had invoked his life debt and used it to order Caelum to integrate himself in the _same_ terrorist network as his spy.

Caelum owed much to his mother for his present, distasteful situation. Blake might have been the one to challenge him to the duel and the one who now gave him orders based on the life debt, and he would never forgive Blake for it, but his mother was the ultimate driver in his present circumstances. Without her, he wouldn't have entered the stupid duel to begin with, and without her and the attack, he wouldn't now be contemplating the grand doors to his hated childhood home, where the Voldemort was hiding, under his father's protective wards.

The Lestranges, as well as most of the more recognizable members of Voldemort's followers had been arrested and were being held for trial. His mother hadn't had the foresight, or maybe she simply hadn't cared, to cover her hair or tie it back during the attack. Her hair, and her hysterical laugh, were distinctive and she and both his father and uncle had been arrested. At least, with their imprisonment and with the several weeks of quiet information that Caelum had been coaxing out of the family house-elves, Caelum had finally worked out a plan to carry out Blake's orders. His life debt, and his magic, demanded it.

But that was _not_ something that Voldemort could know, and he forced the thought away, focusing instead on his hate. He hated Blake, and he hated his mother. He hated that Blake had challenged him to a duel, and he hated Blake for humiliating him in front of all Wizarding Society. He hated his mother for a lifetime of abuse, and he owed her revenge for it.

He walked into the Lestrange manor, looking around with a sharp eye. He hated this house – he hated every part of it. He hated the foyer, where there was a troll leg acting as an umbrella stand. He hated the long, Persian rug running the length of the front hallway, and he hated the expansive main hall, the one with the Lestrange coat of arms over the mantle and the stupid, not even correct, Latin family motto that one of his less than educated ancestors had managed to devise. He hated everything.

Caelum Lestrange was hate incarnate, and that was what Voldemort would see.

The Voldemort was staring into the fireplace, a young man not much older than Caelum, if not even a little younger. He wasn't quite as tall as Caelum, but he had broader shoulders, more muscle, and a warmer tint to his skin. He wasn't alone – a cursory glance told Caelum that there were a half-dozen others in the room, none of whom he recognized. If he didn't hate his childhood home anyway, he would hate the fact that they were present, these unknown persons in the Lestrange mansion.

But, since he would be completely satisfied to burn the Lestrange mansion to the ground, preferably with his family in it, so he couldn't say he cared that much.

"You've left the wards open, my lord," Caelum said, his voice low and almost a little mocking, though he swept a far lower bow than he would have done in any other situation. If this man had won his mother's loyalty, that meant he was insane, insanely powerful, or insanely cruel. Since he had attacked the Ministry Ball, Caelum would guess all three. He liked that – someone as powerful as Voldemort would understand Caelum's all-encompassing hate, his rage, and his need for revenge. "Or, as the Lestrange Heir, I can bypass the wards in any case."

The self-proclaimed Voldemort turned to him. He looked to be about the same age as Caelum, but Caelum couldn't help wondering if his mother had had sex with him yet. The Voldemort could have been described as handsome, Caelum guessed; his nose was strong, and he was square-jawed, a typical look of a strong Eastern European pureblood. His eyes were so dark that Caelum thought at first that they were black, but on second look they were closer to a very dark blue. He wore the slightest smile on his face as he looked into Caelum's eyes, and Caelum didn't need Occlumency to know that his thoughts were being read.

Caelum didn't care. Caelum Lestrange was made of hate, and he had nothing to hide from Voldemort. Nothing at all, and surely this man would understand Caelum's impotent rage, his fury, his desire for power and revenge. Not power for power's sake, but the power to hurt people – especially Blake, for his humiliation, and that went _triply _so for his mother, for everything she had done to him before.

"Your mother is one of my most loyal servants," the Voldemort said, and there was something almost a little odd about his syllables, as if he cherished his 's's more than most. He lingered over them, not quite enough to stand out, but a few milliseconds off how any other person would have said those words.

"My mother is insane," Caelum countered, bringing his hands behind his back, flashing back to his entire lifetime – his mother, beautiful but uncontrolled. His mother, improving her torture curses on him. A treasured memory, of the one time she had almost gone too far, and Caelum had turned it back on her. He savoured that moment, that memory, that _feeling_ of enjoyment when he heard her screams. "She is also stupid, and she lacks control. It is because of her that she and most of your most high-ranking members have been arrested – she is too recognizable, and she sings like a bird, unthinking."

There was a hint of a smile on the young man's lips – second-hand pleasure at the torture, Caelum guessed. It was an enjoyable memory. "And you, Caelum Lestrange, would do better?"

"I hate my mother," Caelum said, letting his anger and rage seep to the surface, wearing it openly on his face. "My mother might have been your best enforcer, but she is loud and stupid and unstable. I would have done better than be arrested at the Ministry Ball."

There was a long silence, where Voldemort studied Caelum with dark, pitiless eyes. "I have been concerned about your mother's … fanaticism. She has also slipped in the questioning of two prisoners."

Caelum snorted, looking away, disgusted at the very thought. "My mother, torture for information? She would never be able to do it. She enjoys the screams too much."

"But you could?"

Caelum looked back at Voldemort, measuring. "I could, my lord." He kept his voice light, noncommittal, because he _wouldn't_, not without certain assurances. He wanted his revenge on Blake – he wanted the chance to prove to Wizarding Britain that he, too, was someone to be feared. He wanted power, and he would take whatever chance he could get to have his revenge on his mother, too.

He was from Durmstrang, and he knew an array of Dark Arts, and he had learned torture at his mother's feet.

Voldemort's face lit with a small smile, one that was not friendly in the least, but one that Caelum hoped he understood_._ "Come," he said, his voice clipped, leading Caelum downstairs into the cellars. "We have captured an employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and I need to confirm where my people are being held – the Dementors are our natural allies, of course, but I would not like to tip my hand too soon. Once I have your mother back, I will allow you to exact my punishment for her errors with the Ministry Ball."

Caelum returned the smile, chilly, drawing his wand as he followed – or, not his wand, but a replacement that he had purchased from Gregorovitch only a week ago, and one which he was surprised to find was almost as good a match for him as his Ollivander wand. "I look forward to it."

He didn't recognize the Ministry employee in front of him, but it only took three hours to break him. He was not his mother – he was far more creative. He didn't need to resort to the Torture Curse.

There were 27 bones in a human hand – 54 in two hands. Caelum broke every single one of them. He had also ripped out the man's fingernails, toenails, and teeth, and blinded him permanently before the man gave up everything he knew, including the location of Voldemort's followers, as well as quite a lot of information that Caelum simply did not care about.

It was easy. It was so shockingly easy, and Caelum fought back any thoughts of fear, or disgust, or horror at what he was doing. He couldn't afford to feel these things, or think about anything at all, not with Voldemort's eyes on him the entire time, watching with enjoyment as Caelum drew out the pain with the mastery gained only through a lifetime of first-hand experience. Instead, he sank, almost as he did when his mother tortured him, and he was nothing. He was nothing, and he was hate.

He hated everything, including this snivelling waste of a wizard in front of him. He secured himself in his hate, and his only words were calm demands for information, his only thoughts focused on emptiness and hate. Only at the end, when Caelum was sure he had gotten everything that the man had of value to offer, did he turn to the Voldemort. His new commander, if he was lucky and had proven himself.

"A quick death, my lord, or would you prefer otherwise?" Caelum said, uncaring. "He has given us, I think, everything of value."

"It matters not," the other man said, rising from the chair he had been sitting in for the last three hours. "I have an assault to plan on Azkaban, and negotiations with the Dementors to attend. Do as you will, Lestrange."

There was a hint of approval in his voice, and Caelum smiled, satisfied. He looked back at the weeping, blind Ministry employee, flicked a simple _Avada Kedavra _at him, and put the poor bastard out of his misery.

That night, the life debt tugging at his magic, he penned his first report to Blake – a short note of only three lines, coded and sent with his youngest house-elf, one sworn to absolute secrecy. _Infiltration successful. Attack on Azkaban planned to free prisoners. Negotiations with Dementors ongoing. _

He rubbed his eyes, feeling a queasy chilliness seeping through his chest. His hands came away damp, but he mastered himself with a lifetime of practice.

He hated everything.

XXX

Aldon stared down at the note, which he had decoded with ease. Lestrange was in, and he was also getting information from other sources – from Cameron, still funnelling him pieces of information from both Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic as _kelpie_, from Abbott, his primary liaison with the Shifter Alliance, who were widely connected within both the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_, and from Zabini, still at Hogwarts and with his ears open on SOW Party news. Millicent Bulstrode, too, was passing information, though she had no names for the persons with whom she was corresponding, and her most useful information was that passed to her by her uncle at the International Confederation of Wizards.

They simply called it _terrorism_, both in the _Daily Prophet_ and abroad. People were to be cautious, and the populace knew to report anything unusual to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as soon as possible. The _Daily Prophet_ was awash in safety and security tips, but the situation was only a matter of _concern_, not for panic. The _Daily Prophet _seemingly had orders to focus on the upcoming trials for Lestranges, the most prominent of those arrested, and the others. Similarly, the official position of the Wizarding British delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards was simply that _certain dissatisfied parties_ in Wizarding Britain were active and that the Ministry of Magic was handling it.

Aldon had nearly laughed – before sending a copy of the Voldemort's own pamphlet from the Hogwarts Express attack to be published in _Bridge _with an incisive comparison of the SOW Party's own political positions over the last fifty years, then disseminating it to their connections in the ICW. Aldon wanted Wizarding Britain's reputation in the trash; if things went very well for him, he wanted a clean slate for the new Wizarding British government, and if things went very badly, he wanted to be able to call on international aid without going through the Ministry.

From his many connections, he knew that the picture painted by the _Daily Prophet_ wasn't accurate. Whoever had been arrested, they were clearly only a small part of Voldemort's organization – people were disappearing, not often but here and there, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was overwhelmed. It didn't help that some employees, those who had international family or the lesser-blooded, the ones who had either finished homeschooling programs or who had grandfathered into the Ministry before the educational changes happened, were quitting and leaving. Things were much worse than the Daily Prophet said they were, and Aldon knew it.

He folded Lestrange's coded note. Based on the timing of the disappearance, as well as the information that Lestrange had been able to obtain, at least he knew what had likely happened to David Goldfarb, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement employee who had gone missing a week before. Abbott would not be happy to hear it – he had been a friend to the shifter alliance – but there was little he could do about it. At least the man's family would know what had happened to him. He sighed and sat down to pen a letter to Abbott in code.

At least there was one bright spot in all of this – he could now walk into Diagon Alley to post the letter without any risk of a marriage proposal. They wouldn't work on him anymore. No other marriage rite would work on him unless Francesca released him from his vows, which she wouldn't do because she knew nothing about it, and if he had his way, she never would. He would win her back before then, and they would do everything properly with one of the more modern and likely acceptable rites, and she never had to know that his vows went deeper.

She wasn't talking to him – not privately. They were still working on the ACD, having gotten back to it the second week of January, but they were at the point where they had put further developments on the ACD on hold in favour of figuring out a way to quickly match a wizard's magic to a particular electromagnetic wavelength, and there was no need for their private conversations anymore. Instead, it was all team meetings, early in the morning for her and around noon for him, and his mother was there, Albert was there, and he couldn't have the private conversation he needed to have with her. And when he asked if she would be available later for a conversation, she always had an excuse.

Dance was a primary one. She was preparing for a major competition, and she would be practicing late. And he knew how John got, if she didn't make it for dinner, and by then it would be so late, far later than he should be awake. And she had homework to do, she always had homework. And, in the open as they were, at a team meeting at his workplace, Aldon could hardly argue with her on it.

He had tried to call her anyway, late at night his time. She never responded, and he didn't even know if she heard him. His begging went nowhere, and neither did his orders for her to reply to him. He hadn't really expected the latter to work, but he had gotten frustrated, and those orders were usually immediately followed by a several apologies just in case she _had_ heard them and was choosing to ignore him.

Calls hadn't worked, and neither had the multiple, carefully penned letters that he sent her. Those were full of effusive apologies, always wrapped around a gift of some sort. Books – he had slipped into the Flourish and Blotts and picked out a fine copy of the legend of the Light Lady and the Dark Lord, embossed in gold, and another week he had gone out on a limb and picked out a collection of traditional romantic Wizarding British legends, at least two of which had included the exact same rite he had invoked. The last one, he had tried to follow Archie's advice, and he had picked out a pretty journal for her at the paper shop and sent it across the ocean.

The silence hurt. It hurt, and it was awful, and he _missed_ her. He missed their late night conferences, their private, shared moments of laughter – he missed how she had _felt_, when she was with him, whether physical or not. It was a constant ache, having her speak on their communication orb in the morning team meetings, and yet being unable to contact her otherwise. She was perfect, and for a glorious half-hour, she had been _his_, and he had stolen four kisses from her with the promise of more, and then it was gone. And he hadn't been able to _fix_ it.

Yet. He hadn't been able to fix it _yet_, he corrected himself sternly. He would.

At least she was safe. The current terrorist threat couldn't touch her in America, and that was more than he could say for himself and anyone else remaining in Britain. He had redone the wards on his mother's penthouse, added yet another layer of security onto Queenscove at Neal's request, and then, because Archie had asked, he had reinforced the wards for Grimmauld Place as well.

"I hope you know that Masters in Ward Construction charge approximately five hundred galleons for this," he had said to Neal, with an effort at being biting and mostly failing. Neal had backed him up on the duel, which was worth far more to him than five hundred galleons, not that Aldon would ever tell him so.

"I'm still paying you a ludicrous amount of money every month," Neal had retorted in French, rolling his eyes. "And you're not a Master of Ward Construction, so stuff it."

Neal had taken to speaking near exclusively in French to him, still in that bizarre accent, which Aldon was fairly certain was catching. He claimed he needed to practice, and Aldon humoured him, sometimes, because Neal often didn't listen to him otherwise. Not that there was much left to teach him – he was going off into things that were far less likely to come up now, and he didn't know how useful these would be in a state of war anyway. He suspected that Neal knew that too, but Neal hadn't fired him yet, so he dug deep for lectures on esoterica on noble privilege and obligations and the Charter of Noble Rights. More than once, Neal tried to drag him out to his lists, but Aldon always refused.

He was busy. Information was streaming in, and _Bridge_ was busy. He had the ACD, and he had letters and notes to code and decode, decisions to make about what information he needed to send elsewhere, what information should be published for the public, and how any published information should be phrased. He would take any opportunity he could to weaken the hold of the _Daily Prophet_ and the Wizengamot, if he could. All of this took _time_, and even without Francesca's late night calls, he usually slept late and woke late.

It was a Saturday, closer to the end of January than the middle, and Aldon woke up to Stinging Hex on his left arm.

He grappled for his wand, on his bedside table, only to find it _not there_. He rolled over, his fingers already moving in an attack rune, summoning _fire_, but before he could finish it, a set of clothes hit him in the face – not his clothes, but a set of Muggle clothes reminiscent of what Neal wore when Aldon arrived too early at Queenscove and caught him coming in from the lists.

"Get up," he heard a familiar voice say, and his eyes sprung open and he jerked up, his arm where he had been hit with the Stinging Hex aching.

Alex stood in his bedroom, leaning against one wall, both his wand and Aldon's in his hand. He flashed a fanged smirk, showing Aldon his own wand. "Get dressed. It's already almost seven in the morning, and we're going for a run."

Aldon gaped at him, not entirely sure where he should start. What was Alex doing in Wizarding Britain? How did he get into the penthouse, into Aldon's bedroom, and what did he think he was doing, taking his wand and flinging clothing at him?

And he was certainly _not_ going for a run. He had only done such things out of duress.

"Alex," he started, ranking his questions by priority and determining that his wand was the most important. He began forming another set of runes in his mind, ready to flick them off at his friend, another fire spell. "My wand back, please."

Alex flicked the spell away almost before it came into being – Aldon's hand had come up to throw it, and the rune was shattered, snuffed out with a twist of Alex's own wand before it could come to life. "Get dressed. We're going for a run." He turned and headed out of Aldon's bedroom.

"It's _seven in the morning_," Aldon called after him, picking up the clothes. He was not putting these on. He was not, he simply was not. "On a Saturday. I _am not_."

Alex poked his head back into Aldon's bedroom. "Yes, you are. Or I won't give you your wand back and trust me when I tell you that you are not getting it back otherwise. You might have been enough to duel Caelum Lestrange, but you are _nothing_ compared to me."

Aldon scowled, getting up. He ignored the _sweatshirt_ and _sweatpants_ on the bed and headed for his trunk. He would see about this – after he was clothed in something that was not his pyjamas. With a coffee in him.

The lock of his trunk bit him. He blinked, and reached again, and it shocked him again. He frowned, drawing a runic Sight screen with one hand, and caught no fewer than nine spells over it. He considered it for a few minutes, his mouth tightening. He was _good_ at runic spellcasting, and as someone who actively used it as part of his everyday magic, he had sometimes wondered if he might even be among the best in Britain. He treated it as a full method of spellcasting, which he knew that even many Runes Masters and Mistresses did not – runic casting was alive to him in a way that it was not for most. Six months working at Blake & Associates had only sharpened that.

But about half the spells locking his trunk, and therefore his clothes, were wand spells. Could he have broken them with runes? Yes, he thought, with a lot of effort and if it were not for the fact that his rune dictionaries were either _locked in his trunk_ or at work. He cursed Alex, under his breath, and looked between his pyjamas and the clothes that had been tossed in his face.

To leave his room, he would prefer not to be in his pyjamas.

He cringed and reached for the sweatshirt and sweatpants. The sweatpants were black, unfashionable but at least nondescript, and his sweatshirt was blazoned with the crest of one of the local Muggle universities. _City University of London_, apparently.

Outside his room, he found Alex standing in his kitchen, chatting quietly with his mother. His friend wasn't bothering to hide his small fangs, but Christie didn't seem to be overly bothered. There was a small crease in her forehead, between her eyes, but he was reassuring her over something. Well, that explained how he had gotten through the wards, at least.

"Alex," Aldon began, his voice stiff. "Kindly return my wand and undo the array of curses you have laid on my trunk."

"Would you like some juice, Aldon?" Christie offered, almost a little tentative. "Or, I can get out the blender and make you a fruit smoothie for your run?"

Aldon stared at her, suddenly convinced that something was wrong. Or rather, that something was _more wrong_ than it had been when he had first woken up to find Alex in his bedroom, in possession of his wand. He looked between his mother and Alex, who was smirking again.

"What, exactly, is going on here?"

"We're going for a run," Alex said, flicking his wand again and a pair of shoes, _trainers_ as Archie called them, threw themselves at Aldon. Alex was already dressed in a thin, long-sleeved, Muggle sweatshirt of his own, as well as his own pair of sweatpants, a pair of trainers on his feet. Aldon guessed that his wand was secreted in Alex's large front pocket, and he briefly considered lunging at his friend – _former_ friend, that was – for it. Yes, Alex was half a head taller than him and quite a bit more fit, but if he took Alex by surprise…

"Go ahead and try." Alex's voice was amused. "But you're not going to succeed. Christie, thanks for the offer, but he'll eat later. I don't want him throwing up before we're even halfway through the route."

Aldon scowled, glaring at both of them. "Allow me to repeat myself. What, _exactly_, is going on here?"

Christie glanced at Alex, obviously worried, but Alex favoured her with a slightly more open smile. "I'll handle it," he said, reassuring.

Christie nodded. "I will, er, leave it to you, then," she said, and she fled to the living room, a cup of coffee in hand.

Aldon turned his glare on his friend, who considered him for a moment before responding. "Suffice it to say, Aldon, someone who loves you very much sent me a memory of you making a fool of yourself in a duelling court and traded three months of war service to convince me to come and put you through boot camp."

"Who?" Aldon narrowed his eyes. His gift told him that Alex wasn't lying.

Alex shrugged, nonchalant. "Won't answer that. Promised I wouldn't. Shoes on, Aldon. Let's go run."

"I do not need _training_," Aldon said, his voice stiff, holding out his hand for his wand back. "As I am sure you saw, I won my duel. I'm quite busy, Alex, and you can tell whoever put you up to this that I am perfectly fine and certainly do not need _boot camp_. So do return my wand and undo whatever you've done to my trunk."

Alex didn't offer a response right away, instead leaning back against Christie's counter. A lazy, confident sort of smirk came across his face, one fang flashing in the open. "Know why that pretty girl rejected you at the end of your duel?"

Aldon swallowed, taken aback, but he refused to dignify that with a reply.

"She rejected you because she saw that duel," Alex said, his tone perfectly serious. "It was enough to murder anyone's affection for you. She could have killed you with that fire spell if your friend, Queenscove, hadn't stepped in. Why would she pick you after seeing that?"

"That…" Aldon sucked in a breath, feeling like he had been punched in the gut, not least because his gift _hadn't_ reacted to Alex's bald statement. As ridiculous as it sounded, Alex believed it to be true. And Alex was right on at least one point.

Aldon wasn't a good dueller, and he knew it. He had told Francesca not to watch, but he didn't know if she had or not. Everything had happened so quickly after the duel, that he had never asked. But Neal said it was for other reasons, as did the Lord Black, reasons relating more to the fact that he had essentially proposed marriage to her right afterwards in a rite with wide-ranging consequences that she didn't understand.

He shouldn't have done that. He had been cursing himself for that for the last three weeks, now. Her running had nothing to do with his duelling prowess.

He focused on that thought. Neal knew Francesca, and he had said that Aldon had just taken his affections too far that day. Neal had never mentioned duelling being part of it. "How do you know Neal?"

"Met him earlier this week. Few heirloom-casters with his looks – I asked around." Alex shrugged again. "Not bad with a sword, your friend. He said your pretty girl has many admirers at school, most of whom rank well on the North American duelling circuit. She watches the competitions every year. After your duel, she knows exactly how bad you are at it."

"That – that's not…" Aldon pressed his lips tightly together. Francesca had never said that duelling skill was important to her. But at the same time, Alex was perfectly convinced that what he was saying was true. "She only goes because her friend, John, is on the circuit."

"Yes," Alex said agreeably. "And it is hardwired into women, to look for protectors and providers."

Aldon glared at him. He didn't think Alex was _right_, and neither Neal nor the Lord Black had mentioned the duel _itself _being an issue, but Alex wasn't lying, and he couldn't deny that, well…

Francesca did like that sort of thing. He had peeped at enough of her romance novels, both the ones he had spotted her reading, and he had also perhaps also looked up the titles that she was borrowing out of the Muggle public library near Grimmauld Place. A lot of historical romances, particularly with knights. Or Vikings. Or Scottish clan lairds. She _was_ attracted to men that she thought could protect her, and that was obvious by what she read.

Even if it wasn't a reason for his rejection, it would… likely not be a bad idea for him to go along with what Alex had planned. When he won her back, he wanted her to have absolutely no reason to reject him again. His own vows wouldn't allow it, either: _defend you with my wand, shield you with my name_ had been among them, and he could not defend her with his wand if he didn't learn, and quickly, how to duel. And winning back his manor, Rosier Place, for her would likely require duelling to defend his title.

They were also in the midst of war, and based on his piles of reports, things would only get worse. The Ministry was not in as much control as they made it seem, and Aldon was now the key informational node point between _Bridge_ and several of their other allies. He couldn't rely only on the Muggle world and others' ignorance to shield him long-term and being dead would certainly be a wrench in his plans.

Six months ago, Aldon would have been happy to set Wizarding Britain on fire, and he hadn't worried too much about living past it. It was more important to him, then, simply to turn the world upside down for a chance at a better life, one of his choosing. If he survived, that would be a bonus, but seeing the whole pureblood edifice going up in flames was non-negotiable.

But then the ACD had happened, and Francesca had happened. And she had kissed him and given him a taste of something more – a future where she was by his side, and he had enough wealth, status and power to ensure that she had everything she ever wanted. If he wanted that future, and he did want that future very, very much, then he would have to fight for it. And in these current circumstances, with the Ministry seemingly powerless against Voldemort, having to fight was looking more and more likely.

He glanced down at the trainers.

He hated running. He hated exercise. He hated duelling.

He probably had no choice.

Alex tilted his head slightly, the smallest smile on his lips as he saw the change in Aldon's expression. "Let's go for a run."

"I'm meeting Neal today," Aldon protested weakly, trying a different tack. Maybe he couldn't put this off forever, but he could put it off _today_, to become more accustomed to the idea. "At nine. We're covering what acceptable dishes to serve at a formal dinner party today."

"I spoke to Neal. You're fired. You've taught him everything he needs to know to navigate Wizarding British society, and all of that will probably change in the next few years anyway. Instead, he will feed us and let us use his lists." Alex pointed down at the trainers. "Trainers, on. Now."

Aldon scowled again, looking for another way out which would also get him his wand and clothes back, but he didn't see any. Reluctantly, he reached for the trainers, sliding them onto his feet over his socks, dreading the feeling of water seeping through the thin material as they no doubt would.

Aldon's idea of a run was ten or fifteen minutes, interspersed with many breaks to sit down and catch his breath. Alex's routine was closer to an hour, a mix of walking, jogging, running, and full sprints. None of the sprints were very long, only a maximum of two minutes, but each time Alex forced him through another one, Aldon wondered if death might not be better. He treasured the few times that Alex allowed him to just walk, but none of those times were long enough – only a minute or two, and then Alex would force him to jog, then to run. Again.

"If you need to throw up, do it to the side, where the wind can't blow it back onto your face and I don't have to smell it," Alex said, not halfway through the hellish run, sounding very bored. "And don't stop running."

Aldon couldn't find the breath to reply, because Alex was pushing him onwards, but he thought that was very important information to provide. He did want to throw up, quite a lot, but he didn't think he could find the breath to do it. His mouth was dry from gasping, and he hated his shoes. His feet were soaking wet, because London in winter was always raining, and he couldn't tell if he was too warm or too cold. He was sweating from this much exertion, and his face felt too warm, but his sweat had soaked through his sweatshirt along with the damp misty rain, and the cold wind chilled him to the bone.

He hated running.

Maddeningly, Alex looked perfectly fresh, and he wasn't even breathing very hard when they ended at the Leaky Cauldron, where Aldon flopped over and leaned against the dirty, grimy window, panting for breath. He hadn't decided whether he needed to throw up, yet. He thought he probably needed to throw up.

"Good God, you're slow," Alex said, ignoring Aldon's heaving and hauling him through the front doors of the Leaky Cauldron. Alex didn't even seem to struggle with his weight, instead just shoving him closer to the fireplace. "Stop being so dramatic."

"I need a drink," Aldon choked out. His muscles burned and his legs were trembling. He felt faint, and he still wanted to vomit. "Vodka."

"No time," Alex said, holding out a pot of Floo Powder. "Neal is waiting for us. He's been excited for this for the last few days."

"He never said anything." Aldon swallowed another heave, finally feeling like it was more probable that he would _not_ vomit rather than simply spewing the contents of his stomach over the Leaky Cauldron's floors. His stomach was empty, which did make not vomiting a great deal easier than he suspected it would have been otherwise.

"You don't talk to him during the week." Alex nudged his shoulder with the pot of Floo Powder, impatient. "I also beat him into submission. I like your friend. He attacked me with his sword when I visited."

Aldon frowned. Alex shouldn't have been able to gain access to Queenscove, not without Neal being fully alert to it long before he reached the gates. The outer wards of Queenscove were an hour's hike away from the main walls inland, and though the seaward wards only stretched out to his ravelins, the sea approach to Queenscove was rocky and treacherous. And there was the fortress itself – thick double walls, something that Neal called the killing field, traps set to go off in every gate or window. Even the Floo, a weak point, Neal had demanded that Aldon password three times over, and Aldon had written in the fireplace's explosive collapse spell himself. "How did you get in?"

"I was invited – not through the Floo, so I Apparated and walked. He ambushed me near one of his ravelins." He paused, looking away thoughtfully. "I broke his cousin's jaw in the Tournament."

Aldon wasn't sure what to say to that, so he reached for the pot of Floo Powder, grabbed a handful, and Flooed to Queenscove.

"Aldon!" Neal's voice sang at him, as Aldon, with a surprising lack of grace, nearly toppled over out of the fireplace. This was why running was a terrible idea. His legs felt like jelly, and he hadn't even been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. Neal sounded far too chirpy for this hour of the morning. "You're late. I'm firing you. I decided I've learned enough noble duty to do me for a lifetime. _Crissez_ formal dinner parties, and formal correspondence, and formal everything. Keep the change."

Neal was leaning against the head table in his great hall, balancing his sword over one knee, dressed rather incongruously in a pair of grey sweatpants with a red sweatshirt emblazoned with the picture of a beaver and the word _Roots_. His eyes were shining in mischief, and he wore a wide grin on his face.

"I hate you," Aldon informed him calmly. "I build you a near fail-safe warding system, and you repay me like this?"

"_Et moi, je t'aime aussi_," Neal replied cheerfully, Summoning a glass of water and handing it to Aldon. Aldon looked at it blankly, and Neal waved a hand at it. "Drink, and you'll feel better."

"Wrong kind of drink," Aldon muttered, raising it to his lips anyway.

"You said once you were a recovering alcoholic." Neal crossed his arms over his chest, letting his sword levitate on a puff of wind, raising one eyebrow. "You said your best friend, before you were a known halfblood, would put you in rehab if he caught you with another drink."

"Ed doesn't need to know." The water was tasteless, clean, and even if Aldon had never liked the taste of alcohol, he knew that water would never give him the same freedom from inhibition that alcohol would.

"Yeah, I'm still not giving you a drink," Neal said, conclusive, his eyes shifting to his fireplace where Alex was now stepping out of the fire. "What did you do, Alex? I thought you were only doing a 5K run. Even in intervals, it shouldn't have taken you this long."

"We did only do a 5K run," Alex replied, mildly disgusted. "Aldon is an argumentative snail."

"I ran. Do return my wand to me, now," Aldon said, finishing his glass of water and setting it firmly on the table. He did feel a bit better with water, or at least he wasn't panting like a dog. "And now, since I no longer have a consulting job, I will be going. I have a stack of reports to read, research to do, correspondence to write..."

Neal laughed in delight, standing up. "Is that what you did, Alex, steal his wand? Mama and I already ate, but I'll ask the house-elves to reheat breakfast for you."

He turned away, flipping his sword into non-being, heading to the kitchen while Aldon fixed his former friend with a glare. "Wand," he repeated.

Alex merely followed Neal with a secretive sort of smile. "No," he said. "Breakfast."

Aldon scowled and went after them.

Neal had put out a spread of food that Aldon thought he could never eat, even in the best of circumstances, without wanting to throw up: eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes with real maple syrup. It was too heavy – all he wanted was a croissant and a cup of coffee. He wrinkled his nose and reached for the pancakes alone. Alex already had five eggs on his plate, as well as toast and several slices of bacon and a few sausages, while Neal was hovering over a coffee. Aldon glanced around for Neal's mother, a common presence that he enjoyed having nearby, if only because she kept Neal in line during lessons and actually seemed interested in the minutia of noble etiquette.

"Mama found a job in Edinburgh teaching Mandarin – Saturday mornings only," Neal explained catching the look. "Off terrifying other _hua qiao_ into speaking their heritage languages, for once. She'll be back by two, no doubt infuriated by someone's inability to construct a proper sentence."

"It is difficult to retain a language if it isn't spoken regularly." Alex didn't have coffee, Aldon saw – instead, there was only a tall glass of orange juice near his plate. "You were waiting with your sword. Do you want to be beaten again that badly?"

"Well, I didn't exactly get revenge for Fei on Thursday, did I?" Neal grinned. "Besides, the more practice I get now, the more likely I am to pummel _Graeme_ into the dust the next time he shows up at Queenscove."

"Would either of you care to explain what it is that you think you're doing?" Aldon broke in, his eyebrows creasing together as he reached for the carafe of coffee. "I am not – I do not—"

"I thought you'd have already explained it to him, Alex," Neal replied, glancing over at Alex while taking a sip from his mug of coffee. Whatever had happened in the past few days, clearly Neal and Alex had become friendly, though Aldon had no idea what that meant for himself. He shouldn't be surprised – Neal seemed to be the type to make friends easily. Too bad the man didn't seem to have any interest in applying it politically. A Hufflepuff, if Aldon guessed correctly – or possibly a Gryffindor.

"I did, he just hasn't accepted it yet." Alex's voice was almost amused, and Aldon couldn't help dropping his eyes to Alex's front pocket, where he could just see the handle of his wand poking out. Alex was sitting too far away from him, and there was a table in the way of him trying to grapple for it. Not that he could grapple for it anyway. Catching his look, Alex smirked, pulled out Aldon's wand, and set it on the table – just out of Aldon's reach.

Aldon scowled.

"He is right, you know," Neal said idly, looking at Aldon, but his green eyes were serious. "Look, Aldon – we're in a war, no matter what the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ are saying. You know it, Mama agrees, my old sword tutor would agree too. That duel, even if you won, was outrageously stupid. It showcased your weaknesses, both your lack of any real combat skills and your emotional weaknesses. You fell for a taunt, and you showed the world exactly who was most important to you. If you want to survive, you need something like real training, and whoever it was that paid for this one, they knew what they were doing." Neal waved a hand at Alex.

Aldon looked down at his plate. _Emotional_ weaknesses – he didn't need to think to know about what Neal was talking, or to whom he was referring.

"She's in America," he said weakly. "She's safe in America."

Neal and Alex exchanged a glance, one that Aldon hated to see. Neal chewed on his words for a moment, picking out what to say. "To be honest, Aldon, depending on how things go, I don't know that even being in America will be safe. AIM security isn't very tight – it's disguised as an elite No-Maj boarding school, and there are walls and wards, but America hasn't fought a magical war since the Grindelwald Wars. Even in the Grindelwald Wars, the main fighting happened in continental Europe – Wizarding America hasn't had a magical war on its soil in well over a hundred years. I would put money that John and Kel have a guard on Francesca and I think that she's still in the duelling dorms, but if someone really wanted, it wouldn't be very hard to get at her. And with you being you..."

Aldon swallowed, eyes falling to his plate with his half-eaten pancakes. If his enemies captured Francesca, that would be a very strong incentive for him to do whatever they demanded of him. And with the information he had, he would, if he were on the other side, certainly attempt to get leverage on himself. His thin pseudonym and the barriers posed by Muggle technology only went so far, especially when his network of informants was growing.

"Stormwing analysis says she is fine for the moment." Alex reached for his glass of juice, not looking at Aldon and appearing to ignore him entirely. "_Bridge_ may be gaining in acceptance, but it is not important enough for Voldemort's focus. He is inclined to attack the Ministry and the Wizengamot first, who hold his followers. Similarly, the Ministry will not be prioritizing _Bridge_. And while AIM's security may be lacking, it would be a challenge to make it into Wizarding America at all – MACUSA keeps a close eye on Wizarding points of entry, and Muggle America is little different."

"Stormwing analysis?" Aldon couldn't help but ask, skeptical. He had never heard the term, and while the rest of what Alex said seemed logical and was in accord with the information he had from both Lestrange and his Ministry contacts, he couldn't help but be a little apprehensive.

Neal grimaced a little. "Stormwings are a mercenary order," he explained, with a small shake of his head. "Crazy, the lot of them. Utterly insane. Warmages – not Aurors, who are more of a police force, but _warmages_."

"I like Stormwings," Alex said, reflective, reaching for an extra bit of toast to soak up his egg yolks. "We work with many of them in the Order. Their analysis is sound."

"You would. Dhampir are equally bonkers."

Alex flashed a fang, but Neal only returned his pointed stare with a smile. There was a moment of silence, then Alex shook his head and turned back to Aldon. "To return to the topic, you have time now to learn some combat skills. I am being paid to see that you do. We can do this the easy way, or not."

Aldon narrowed his eyes, considering his options. On one hand, Alex and Neal were speaking sense, but on the other… _physical activity_. "I have a job. I have other things to do."

"You're on half-days at work. I spoke to Christie." Alex's voice was firm. "Your mornings belong to me. And if you don't complain too much, I'll let you play with _these_."

He pulled out his own wand, made a lazy Summoning motion, and two dark, metallic objects came flying towards him. One was long, large, the other one much smaller. Aldon didn't recognize them immediately – they weren't something he had grown up with – but it only took a few minutes for him to recognize their shapes. One he recognized from a glimpse in the Triwizard Tournament as something very close to what one of the AIM players, the one who had gotten attacked in the very first Hogwarts game, had used; the other, he recognized from Muggle television.

Guns. A sniper rifle, as Alex had called the large one, and a handgun. Aldon's eyes widened.

"You're already proficient in two casting styles, and I can see you have tricks." Alex was smiling slightly, watching as Aldon reached out, almost hesitant, to pick up the sniper rifle. "Magic is good, but wizards rarely expect to see a Muggle gun, and guns cause a lot of blunt force trauma very, very quickly. Guns also require less focus, a bullet travels faster than a spell, and sniper rifles have a much farther range than any spell."

The weapon was heavy – heavier than Aldon had expected, though he ran one hand down the long barrel, testing the feel. He had seen enough of Christie's detective shows to know not to look down the barrel, and he looked through the sight, attached at one end, pointing it in the direction of one of Neal's windows.

"_Que Dieu vienne m'aider, _if you blow out one of my windows…" Neal said, but his heart didn't really seem to be in it. Aldon put the sniper rifle down, reaching instead for the handgun – it was much lighter than the sniper rifle, though still heavier than he expected, and he turned it over in one hand, only for Alex to reach out and grab the weapon from him.

"Don't point it at someone unless you're willing to shoot them." Alex's voice was calm, but serious, his hands expertly checking the weapon over before setting it back on the table, beside Aldon's plate. "And never point it at yourself, especially in magical environments. Guns misfire more often in magical environments than in Muggle ones and aiming is harder because ambient magic affects a bullet's trajectory. Stormwings who use guns have an ongoing argument over which bullets are best, but that doesn't matter for you yet because you need to learn to aim first."

"Finish your breakfast and we'll head out to my lists." Neal grinned, reaching again for his mug of coffee. "Queenscove managed to magic up some _fun_ targets, and when you've tired Alex out, I'm going to hit him with my sword."

"I wouldn't count on it." Alex smirked, reaching for a pitcher of more juice. "I doubt either of you can tire me out."

Aldon turned back to his pancakes. They did have a point, he thought reluctantly, and it was good to see Alex again. And if he managed to win Francesca back to Britain, then it would be better if he were able to protect her, and it would likely be necessary. It didn't look like he had any other options, and he supposed it could have been worse.

It turned out that he had a good eye for shooting things. Better with the sniper rifle than the handgun, but he enjoyed target practice. And Neal gave him a shoulder holster for the handgun, which fit in _very_ well with his waistcoats, and didn't ruin the lines of his clothing.

XXX

Francesca was back at AIM, and life was grey.

She didn't know how else to describe it. It wasn't that the world was grey – the winter sun over AIM was still warm, far warmer than it had been in London, and there was no rain, no snow. The grass was still green, if a bit more faded than it was in the spring and summer, and the wooden plantation houses that made up most of the buildings at AIM were still homey and welcoming.

Life went on. Francesca still had classes: Magical Theory IV, Rune-Casting V, Song-casting II, Mastery Charms V and Standard Potions, Transfigurations, Herbology, Defensive Arts, half of which were heavily accommodated and graded on a pass/fail basis. She had daily dance practice, where she and Javier were working through the finer points of their choreography. She was still stalked, from class to class, by Duelling Club members who were a little too overprotective of her and chattered to her about all manner of things that she didn't really care about and immediately forgot. She was still dragged into the dining room for meals, sitting with John and his friends, and with Archie and Hermione sometimes, and AIM food still made her insides twist and hurt.

She was still careful. Someone tried to Trip-Jinx her again in January, but she caught the flash of light and simply used an air-hardening rune to jump over it before going on her way, and Seaver caught up with her not long after that. She still studied, both for her classes at AIM and for the home-schooling curriculum her parents had her on, and she still worked on the ACD. She still read romance novels and drank tea and hung out with John and his friends in the Holmes Wing common room. Life was the same – everything was the same as it had been before winter break, really.

But it wasn't, because everything was grey. She felt like she was just going through the motions of everything. Her classes were too long, and even if she studied and did the problem sets and she still passed everything, none of it was interesting. She was a robot, programmed to take in data and spit out answers, and she did it as well as she had ever done, and then she went back to her dorm and pulled out the latest problem for the ACD and started working on it. There were papers sent to her on the newest materials from her dad, too, which would expand the range of magical frequencies for which she could make an ACD function.

The papers should have interested her. She should have been all over them, obsessive, and instead she merely read a few of them every night so she could have something new to report at her ACD team meetings every other morning. The specialty teas that she normally loved seemed to have lost their flavour, and she had lost all ability to read her romance novels. Or, rather, it wasn't that she didn't read them – it felt more like she would stare at the words, and she would understand each and every one of them, but the sentence as a whole would have no meaning. It was almost as if she was tasting the words and finding them as flavourless as her tea.

John was worried about her, but Francesca didn't know how to reassure him. Everything was grey, but nothing was wrong. Everything was as it always was, and it was fine. It had always been fine before, so why should it be different now?

_It's different now because you think it's different now_, John had said, frustrated, a few weeks into the winter term. _You're not happy. I'm worried. Maybe you should go out more. Join a new club, meet some new people._

_I don't like people,_ Francesca reminded him, turning back to the book that she wasn't reading so that she could flip the pages. "I'm fine. I'm just… I don't know. It'll blow over."

It was stupid.

She had only known Aldon for a few months. A few short months, and he had already integrated himself so thoroughly into her life, and he hadn't even been _there_ for most of it. Not physically so, anyway, and even those evening calls, they had only been an hour long or so, just the hour she could squeeze between dance practice and dinner. She had more than enough to fill that time, so she didn't know why _not talking to him _was making such an impact in her life. It shouldn't have. She and Aldon were never anything, so why should it?

But it made a difference. The morning team meeting calls were the worst, where Aldon was _there_ and she had to keep it together, professional, because these were the ACD's funders and they needed to keep the project moving. It helped that he wasn't alone, and that their Charms Master, Albert McEvoy, had the lead of this part of the ACD project, because she could focus on Albert and on explaining the finer details of No-Maj materials engineering to him. But Aldon was still _there_, his very presence an overwhelming shadow, and every insightful word from his mouth, on magical theory or runes, burrowed into her brain. And at the end of every call, when he asked if she might be available to talk later, she fumbled for her excuses.

She didn't want to talk to him, not one on one. She didn't want to read his letters, penned in a flowing hand on pretty, high-quality paper, wrapped around books and other delicate stationary. She didn't want to be assaulted with his words, she didn't want to hear his beautiful sharp accent echoing sweet kindnesses around her stupid brain, she didn't want to be reminded of what could have been and wasn't. She didn't want to feel that tenuous connection they had made over the Atlantic, something they had formed through the ACD, over their shared secrets and desires and interests and hopes and dreams, because she couldn't think of that without remembering how he _hadn't _listened to her and how he _had_ tried to trick her and betrayed her trust. So, she had dance, and she had classes, and she had a thousand things to do in that hour between dance practice and dinner that used to belong to him.

They were never anything, so she couldn't even say she had a broken heart. And she didn't have any of the signs of a broken heart – she wasn't crying over her memories of him, because she didn't have any real memories of him. She wasn't consuming bucketloads of ice cream and chocolate and cookies like heroines did in books. She wasn't angry at him – she didn't want to yell at him, or throw things at him, or get back at him in any way. She wanted nothing from him, nothing other than what their ACD contract specified, and all they had to do was get things back on a professional footing.

Things were just grey. That was all.

It was after dinner, a bowl of beef ravioli sitting heavily in her stomach, and Francesca was sitting at the long harvest table in the Holmes Wing common room, a stack of papers her father sent her by her side. Getting papers at AIM was a nightmare, so her father sent her them in stacks, a dozen at once, and it took Francesca most of two weeks to get through them. This one was a review paper, nearly fifty pages long, and Francesca was stuck on page six.

She couldn't focus. She kept reading the same lines, something about the non-reactive properties of argon gas, over and over again without it penetrating her head. It would take her _forever_ to get through this paper, and her dormmates had a chronic inability to _be quiet _so she could try to focus.

Kel was sitting a few seats down from her at the long harvest table, dealing a game of poker. Her dormmates liked gambling too much, she thought sourly – it felt like there was a game every few days, though logically they could not be that frequent. Kel wasn't allowed to play anymore; she had a near perfect poker face, and they booted her out after she had won too much off the rest of them. John wasn't allowed to play either, on account of his Legilimency, so he was sitting beside Kel while she flipped the third of the three cards on the table, sprinkling commentary and trying to hide his laughter.

They were distracting.

"River," Kel said, her voice bored even if her hazel eyes were intent, flipping the card to show a seven of diamonds. "Seaver?"

"I'm out," the dark-skinned boy said, shaking his head and folding his cards on the table.

"You have no sense of _risk_, Seaver!" A wide grin split Owen's face as he pushed half the chips in front of him into the pile. The stacks collapsed, rattling as they spilled across the centre of the table. "I'm raising – by however much this is, I forgot what the blue ones were worth again."

John guffawed, slapping the table. "He knows exactly how much it is. He's just playing the fool again. He knows perfectly well that he just upped the pot by $16.75. You going to take that?"

Francesca sighed, looking back down at her paper. Half of John's amusement at these things was in the sheer amount of trouble he caused. The trick with John at poker was just to ignore him – he said a lot of things, but most of it was utterly meaningless. Sometimes he did tell the truth, but just as often he lied, and in this case, John was lying. Owen did have a good hand this time, two pairs – but no one believed he did, because he had won two hands already on sheer bravado.

She scanned the line again. _Argon is primarily used as an inert shielding gas in welding and other high temperature industrial processes. _

That wasn't relevant to the ACD. Or was it? She wasn't sure. She should know, this shouldn't be this much effort, but she didn't. She reached for her mug of tea, but it was empty; her teapot was empty, too.

"I'm out too." Merric sighed, and there was the slap of cards being put down. "I would rather play another round than go all in."

"Same," she heard Esmond add. "I've got nothing anyway. Fals?"

Francesca wanted more tea. She stood up, heading to the little kitchenette along one side of the Holmes Wing common room, cleaning out the old tea leaves and pulling out a plain black tea from the common stores. If she couldn't taste the different flavours, there was no point in using any of the finer teas. She filled her iron teapot with water and traced a heating rune on the side, turning around to watch the others as they played.

Faleron was staring at his cards, glancing between the two in his hand and the three cards on the table, a look of intense concentration on his face. He was a seventh-year now, in general education since he planned on studying wizarding law after finishing at AIM. They had shared a dorm since Francesca was in second year, and he had flirted with her, on and off, since her third. Sometimes the flirting made her a little uncomfortable, but she had never felt threatened by him – not like Aldon.

Faleron teased her a lot, asking her out and sometimes making a fool of himself while he went at it. It was a bit of a joke in Holmes Wing now. How many times could Faleron get rejected in one term? They were awkward encounters, but they were over quickly; everyone would laugh, Faleron would wince comically, and then he would laugh, and things would go on. They weren't even serious attempts, Francesca thought, not when she had turned him down so many times before. But she never worried, with Faleron – he knew where the line was, and even if he pushed it sometimes, he never crossed it. He would have never tried to trick her into marriage the way that Aldon did. He listened.

He was good-looking, as things went, with dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes, not quite as tall as John or other duellers, with a lean form. He dressed, outside of uniform, in straight-legged jeans, boots and knit, open cardigans over a collared, button-up shirt. A Southerner born and raised, he spoke with a drawling accent that Francesca thought she had heard more than one girl at school sigh over. He was good with his wand, making top eight of the AIM Trials, and she had seen him duelling at every duelling tournament she had gone to before that, too. He usually made top sixteen on the circuit, sometimes top eight, and he was aiming for a podium finish this year. Kel and John both thought that, if the ladders worked in his favour, he could make it. And he was nice – she could always count on him to give her a ride into town if she needed anything.

Faleron sighed, looking at his cards, then at his small stack of chips. "I'm all in," he said, pushing all he had into the middle of the table. "I don't have $16.75, so you'll have to make do with the $9.50 I have."

"Good choice," John lied blithely, his eyes dancing, and Francesca suppressed a snort, turning to check on her tea. The water was hot, so she tapped in the proper amount of tea to let steep, cancelling her fire rune.

"Two pairs," she heard Owen say, triumphant. "Ha! Kings and sevens, Fals, which beats your twos and sevens."

"_Damn_," Faleron replied, and she turned back around to see that he had tossed his two cards onto the table, a rueful look on his face. He saw her watching and sent her a soft smile. "You couldn't have let me win, Owen? How will I get enough money together to take Francesca on a proper date, if not gambling for it?"

Faleron wasn't as good-looking as Aldon. He wasn't as sharp, and his accent was different, but he was nice. He listened to her. He was friendly, and he was _safe_.

"It's not like she's going to date you anyway," Merric scoffed, tossing his two cards into the pile where Kel was gathering them for a new deal. "Give it up and go join the rail, cuz."

Faleron wouldn't hurt her the way that Aldon did.

"Why not?"

Her words were quiet, but from the reaction, it almost as if she had yelled them. The entire table turned to look at her – John's eyes were wide, worried, but she wasn't looking at him. She didn't want to know what he was trying to say to her, mind-to-mind. Kel had raised both her eyebrows, the most surprise that Francesca thought she had ever seen on the famously impassive upper-year, while Owen's jaw had dropped. Merric, Seaver and Esmond, too, were wide-eyed, exchanging looks between her and Faleron, who looked as if someone had hit him over the head.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, looking back down at her iron teapot, touching the handle timidly to see if it was too hot for her to pick up. "Just, um – why wouldn't I?"

"You never—" Faleron coughed, cutting himself off. Francesca picked up her teapot, bringing it over to her spot at the table, catching sight of his face. He was blushing, slightly, watching her warily. "I mean, well. Would you like to go on a date? With me?"

"Are you asking me on a date?" Francesca sat back down at the table, pouring herself a new mug of tea. The steam was warm, with mild scent of sweet honey.

There was silence, and Francesca pulled her review paper back to her. Page six. Argon gases. She felt, more than saw, Faleron stand up from his seat and move to sit in the chair across from her.

"Yes." His voice was firm, and she glanced up at him, sidelong. He was pink, but his dark eyes were intent, and there was no flirtatious smile dancing about his lips. "Yes, I am asking you on a date."

"When?"

"Oh my god," she heard someone mutter. Owen, probably. Possibly Esmond. She ignored them, looking back down at her paper.

"Saturday?"

"Fals, you're tutoring the beginners who wanted extra help in duelling on Saturday," John interrupted. Francesca didn't need to look at him to know that his heavy brows were pushed together in concern and disapproval – that was clear enough from his tone. "Chess, can we talk?"

"Merric will cover me for the beginners, if Saturday works," Faleron replied, his words quick, though Francesca thought she heard Merric sputter. "Francesca?"

"Saturday works." Francesca shrugged slightly, giving up on the section on argon gases and moving on. Argon gas made green-blue lasers. That was all that was really important about argon gases.

"Saturday, then. I'll meet you here at eleven. We'll go somewhere."

"Okay."

"Chess…" John's voice was low. "Can we talk about this?"

Francesca sighed heavily, but it was Faleron who spoke first, sounding defensive. "I'm not sure what there is to talk about, John. Francesca can make her own decisions. It's just a date."

"It's not her I'm worried about, for once," John snapped, pushing himself away from the harvest table. "Chess."

His voice was insistent, and Francesca knew he wouldn't let it go until they had talked. She pressed her lips together and stood up, leaving her papers and tea behind.

They didn't bother going anywhere more private. In the duelling dorms, their mental link was an open secret, so they only moved to an empty corner of the room. Francesca leaned against the armrest of a leather armchair, while John crossed his arms over his chest, glaring into her eyes.

She was assaulted by his thoughts, his feelings, more than words; he was unnerved, and worried, and a little upset. There was a moment of mental grappling, then she fell into his mindscape of New York City, the mental clouds surrounding his complex of towers misty. It took her a moment to find his avatar – on top of a building near Times Square. A twist of her mind, helped by him temporarily shifting distances, helped her glide to the rooftop where he waited, looking no happier in avatar form than he had in person.

_Are you sure about this? _He asked, his expression clouded. _Look, Chess, I know the holiday was rough on you, but…_

_What does the holiday have to do with this? _Francesca looked away, walking to the edge of the building where she could see the shining lights of Times Square in John's mindscape. She had always liked Times Square. _So I accepted a date with Faleron. So what?_

_He really likes you. _John crossed his arms over his chest, following her. _A lot._

_And that's a problem because…? _The lights of Times Square, even in John's mindscape, were blinding. He could have toned them down, but he loved realism in his mental world. The crowds were still there, the yellow taxicabs and the hustle and bustle of life in New York City.

_It's a problem because I don't think you feel the same,_ John replied, mental voice sharp. _You're using him to run away from your own feelings, and that's not fair to him. He's a decent guy, Chess, and if you're going to go on a date with him, you should give him a fair chance. He really likes you, and he's not – you shouldn't date him just because you're feeling lonely and want an Aldon-replacement._

Francesca whirled around, incensed, her dark hair swinging. _What do you propose I do instead then, John? Go back to Aldon? And I'm not – I'm not lonely. I'm not anything._

John's eyes flashed, and he shook his head, his chin stubborn._I don't know what the answer is, but hurting others just because you're hurting isn't like you. You're better than this, Chess._

_I'm not planning on hurting him, _Francesca snapped, taking a step back as if she had been struck. _Faleron has been begging me for a date for years. He's getting a chance to try to convince me and that's more than he's gotten before. Maybe you should tell him this, let him decide what he wants!_

_You know damn well what Faleron would say, and it's that he would take that chance, rebound or not. _John shook his head, mouth carved in a hard, disapproving line. _If you're going to do this, give him a fair chance. He deserves that much. If there's no universe in which he's going to win you over, you need to get back out there and cancel that date._

Francesca glared at him, not knowing how to reply. She was offended that he would imply she wouldn't give him a fair chance, angry that he was calling her out to tell her this when he didn't have any better answers for her, annoyed that he was interfering with her decisions. It was just a date – just one date, and it didn't have to mean anything. Faleron had more of a chance now than he did before, and how could she possibly know whether he could win her over without giving him a chance to win her over? _I'm not listening to this, John. I'm going back to my room. Tell Faleron whatever you want about me, and let him decide._

_Chess… _John's mental voice pleaded, but she was already jumping off the side of the building, falling towards the crowd below, back into real life. One look over at the harvest table showed that her dorm-mates were playing poker again, a thin veneer covering their curiosity while they threw surreptitious looks at her and John, though Kel was trying to keep them distracted. Faleron's expression was cool, tight as he glared across the common room, but he lit up with a smile when he saw Francesca break away, returning to the seat across from him.

She piled her papers into a rough stack, drawing quick levitation runes on her teapot and mug. She glanced up at Faleron, who was watching her with a new hint of worry. "I – I'm going back to my room. I'm just… I'm tired, and I can't concentrate out here."

He nodded, uncertain. "Do you need help carrying anything?"

Francesca shook her head, brisk, tugging on her levitation runes so her teapot and mug followed her. "No, I'll – I'll be fine."

"Saturday, then?" Faleron's drawl trembled a little, apprehensive.

She sent him a small smile. It didn't really feel right on her face, but she tried. "Saturday. Eleven. I, um – I'm looking forward to it."

He nodded, his expression of mixed hope, nervousness, and something a little bittersweet – like he couldn't believe his luck, but also that it had to be too good to be true. "I'll – I'll make it worth waiting for, Francesca."

On Saturday morning, Francesca took a minute to think about what she was going to wear. She was supposed to be excited about this, she thought, but all she could dredge up was a sense of weary obligation. It wasn't that she didn't _want_ to go on a date with Faleron – she wouldn't have accepted it if she hadn't wanted it – but she also wasn't excited about it. It was just something that was, a thing for her to do, one that she had little feeling about whatsoever. She scanned her wardrobe, standing stock still as she eyed her dresses.

It was just a date, she reminded herself, disgusted. It didn't have to mean anything, so she pulled out a plain red sweater-dress, pairing it with black tights, before throwing her hair up into her usual bun. Her makeup, she left simple, and she put on a pair of black, heeled boots and looped her hand through her tiny wallet. A small sheaf of paper spells went under her bra strap before she headed for the common room.

Faleron was already waiting, shifting anxiously on his feet while fiddling with his car keys. He had obviously tried to clean up – he had product in his hair, which shone a little from how much he had put in, and even if his clothes were plain, his boots looked like they had been polished.

"Hi," he said, with a valiant attempt at a smile. "You look beautiful."

She blinked. She looked the same as she ever did. This was the same outfit she had worn two weekends ago, working in the Holmes Wing common room – it wasn't anything special. She supposed he had to say it, but she wasn't sure how to respond.

"Thank you," she said finally. "You… too?"

"I tried," Faleron replied, his smile easing into something a little less awkward and more genuine as he offered her his hand. "Come on. Let's go out, have fun."

Francesca hesitated, glancing at the proffered hand for a second before she took it. It was warm, dry, and his grip was gentle and secure. Her hand was small in his – maybe she should have worn jewellery.

"I wasn't sure what you wanted to do," Faleron admitted, leading her out of Oliver Hall, down the worn path to the main school gates. John was nowhere to be seen, thankfully, and her innate sense told her that he was soaring around on a broom on the Quodpot pitch. She looked back up at Faleron who, even with her heels, was most of a head taller than her.

Aldon wasn't that much taller when she wore her heels. Just a few inches.

She pushed the thought away. "So, um, where are we going?"

"Uh, well, I had a few ideas…" Faleron shrugged, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I thought about a movie, but then I thought that was pretty clichéd and we go see movies as a group a lot anyway. Then I thought about driving farther, to Charleston or something, for a museum or an art gallery, but I was worried that was too much for a first date. Same for theme parks, and I didn't think you would like roller coasters anyway – but if you want to go, we can go. There's one not too far away."

"I don't like roller coasters." Francesca looked away, eyeing the trees that marked the edges of the AIM grounds. They were allowed to go out when they wanted, after classes and on weekends – only the third-years and below needed an upper-year to accompany them, and they had to check in and out with their dorm monitors, but that was it. Aldon had mentioned once that Hogwarts was much stricter, in that sense.

The gates to AIM were huge, iron, welded into grand curlicue waves, and there were no signs that it was a school for magic. Faleron looked around carefully and cast a quick spell before reaching into the pocket of his jeans for his car. In its shrunk form, it looked like no more than a toy, but the second he tossed it, flicking his wand, it turned full-sized, a working, running car.

Francesca smiled as he opened the passenger side door for her. It was a picture – Faleron had obviously tried to look nice, and he was opening the door for her, but the car itself was an old, dented rust-bucket. Before Faleron had it, it had been Neal's; before Neal, it had been Dom's. She didn't know who Dom had gotten it from, but it was the kind of thing the older students passed around. It drove, and that was all that mattered.

The inside was more comfortable than the outside, with internal expansion charms that gave her more leg room than her parents' SUV in San Francisco. She was familiar with the car, because Faleron was the one who took her to town last term, when she needed to use the internet at the library to send emails to Aldon or to her dad, to print papers, to borrow books, or just to go shopping. It had never been like this before, though – she had never been on a date with him. He had always complained, if lightly, before promising her to take her into town later, or the next day, or on the weekend.

He slid into the driver's seat beside her. She had seen this profile of him many times before, from the passenger seat, but somehow it was different now. He looked happy – nervous, but happy. He looked down at her, flashing a small smile, reading the question in her eyes. "I want to surprise you. Can I surprise you? Do you like surprises?"

"Um, I…" Francesca looked away, out the windshield, as he started the car. As old and rusty as it was, it started easily, and Faleron signalled before pulling out onto the empty road. She fidgeted with her fingers. "I don't really like surprises. But, um… I guess I can make an exception. This time."

He wouldn't hurt her. She knew that much. Whatever Faleron had planned, it wouldn't be bad, because Faleron wasn't Aldon.

The roads weren't as busy as Francesca would have expected, though it was a Saturday in late January. There was no real reason for anyone to be out, but there also wasn't any reason for anyone to stay at home, either. Faleron let her pick the music as he swung onto the freeway, making for the closest town, and Francesca flipped through about eight different channels before picking the jazz station and leaving it at that. Jazz was what swing was made for, and it reminded her of dance. Not choreographed dance, for competition, but fun dancing when it was just her and John, or Archie, or any of the guys in Dance Club.

Faleron didn't talk much while he drove. He didn't like driving, he had explained once last term – it wasn't something he felt comfortable doing, but Neal had said that since Kel didn't have her licence, he trusted Faleron more than anyone else in Duelling to inherit the car. Francesca had gotten used to his silence, and she thought he was a good driver. He was very careful, and unlike Neal and Dom, he never speeded. The route to town was a familiar one, a mix of trees and fields as far as she could see.

In town, he turned off where they usually turned if they were going to the mall, but he drove past the mall into an area that was almost industrial. Francesca tilted her head, examining the low-lying brick buildings; there were copy shops, photography studios, an assortment of mechanic shops. She looked around, puzzled.

"It's just – it's here, because of the noise," Faleron said, with a nervous smile as he parked the car in a spot where there didn't seem to be many others. "Wait for me. I'll open your door."

Francesca nodded, unbuckling her seatbelt as he hurried to help her out of the car. She didn't need the help, but his old-fashioned manners were nice, and his hand was warm.

He led her to a long, nondescript building, and she drew a little closer to him out of nervousness. He opened the door for her, and her eyes widened.

There were a few vending machines and arcade games to her right, humming with electricity. A soda machine, stuffed with Cokes and Diet Cokes and Sprite and root beer, a machine stocked with chips and chocolate bars. A crane game, full of cheap toys, and a Pac-Man machine that played a small ditty as the hungry little circle ran around the screen, eating dots, chased by ghosts.

That wasn't the highlight of the place. A few steps forward, and Francesca saw long lanes, the floors light brown and polished. Each lane had a small table at the end, surrounding a small computer, which flashed scores, calculated automatically as the players strategically knocked down pins with their heavy, colourful balls. A machine spat balls out, running along a small track beside each lane, and the noise was incredible. Balls smashed down the laneways, like rolling thunder, until they crashed through a setup of pins at the end, and the clatter was enormous. There weren't many people there, but even the few busy lanes were bright with chatter and laughter.

On her left, a long counter ran down the wall. The area closest to her served food, hamburgers and hotdogs and greasy fries. She breathed in, deep, and the distinctive scent of deep-fried batter, caramelized onions and ketchup assaulted her senses.

Farther along the wall, she saw a cash register, along with dozens of cubbyholes holding shoes – used rental shoes, in red and white, or blue and white, or red and blue, all of them patterned strangely in a way that she would never wear outside.

"Bowling, Faleron?" she asked, turning to him, a sort of helpless amusement lighting her face. It wasn't bad, but she was surprised. It was such an odd choice. "Really?"

He coughed a little, this cheeks pink. "You're right," he said hastily, looking around as if he saw the bowling alley anew and was embarrassed. "This was a stupid idea, we can go somewhere else. Wherever you want, Francesca."

He sounded so flustered about it, and he had tried so hard. Francesca took another deep breath, inhaling the scent of fast food, of old shoes, and she heard a peal of laughter and cheering as someone bowled a strike. It was wholesome, it was strangely familiar and normal and it reminded her of another time. She hadn't been bowling for ages, but her dad and some of his work colleagues had taken her once or twice when she was younger. Before magic had happened – before Aldon had happened.

She laughed, a soft noise, but it was real, and she reached for his hand again. "No, Faleron. It's fine. Let's bowl. I'm not – I haven't been bowling for years."

His face lit up, and he pulled her to the counter to rent shoes.

Faleron was good at bowling. Francesca wasn't. He laughed helplessly over her style; the balls were so heavy that Francesca had to heave them in both her hands, from the rack to the end of the lane, set it down and push it forward. The ball would crawl halfway down the lane before falling into the gutter, not hitting any of the pins. Once, the ball simply stopped, and Faleron had had to line up a difficult shot with a new ball to both clear the lane and knock down her pins for her.

She got credit for that strike, though. Each and every one of Faleron's balls were either a strike or a spare, while Francesca's, more often than not, hit nothing.

For their second game, Faleron decided that all the publicly available balls were too heavy for her and begged a special five-pound ball for her from the counter, which came in a glaring shade of pink. He was right – this round, Francesca could take a running start at the lane and _throw_ the ball down the lane, which seemed to be much more effective for hitting something as well as being much more satisfying. She fell down twice, the momentum of throwing the ball and the slipperiness of her shoes working against her, both of which had Faleron at her side within seconds, simultaneously laughing while checking to make sure she wasn't hurt. He stood closer to her after that, coaching her through the technique for bowling.

"Do you bowl a lot, then?" she asked, curious, as he stood behind her, one hand guiding hers on the ball and the other at her waist as he tried to show her how to throw her hips into the movement.

"I grew up in a small town," Faleron replied, his accent thicker than usual and his warmth comforting on her back. "There ain't a lot to do at home, but there is a bowling alley. I was in a league when I was little, and I still play a lot in the summer."

"I see," she said, letting him reposition her hand on her bowling ball. All his help meant that she had a score above forty, which was still nowhere near the hundred and fifty he tended to average.

For the third game, he asked the staff to turn the bumpers on for her, which was supposed to keep her balls from going into the gutter. They didn't work – even if her balls didn't roll into the gutters anymore, she still missed the pins. Faleron still won, but Francesca didn't mind. It wasn't his fault that she was bad at bowling, and he had tried so hard to teach her, and he had cheered every time she knocked a pin over as if she had bowled a strike. It felt good.

Faleron looked good too when he was bowling, a bright smile and look of focus lighting his face. Afterwards, he took her to Johnny Rockets for milkshakes and grilled cheese sandwiches. He let her pick the music to play from the jukebox, he listened to her stumbling through stories about Stanford and San Francisco, and his hand, holding hers across the table, was warm and comforting.

He wasn't Aldon. Aldon would never have taken her bowling, or for greasy grilled cheese sandwiches and milkshakes. Aldon probably didn't even know what these things were, and even if he did, he would have probably considered them too low-class.

She could see herself with Faleron. He was easy, and he was safe.

"This was – it was fun," she said, when they returned to AIM. It was barely four in the afternoon, but the late afternoon sun lent a golden glow to the school grounds. "Thank you for taking me out."

"Would you—" Faleron stuttered, then he took a breath and tried again. "Can I take you out again, Francesca? A second date?"

She smiled for him – a real smile, because as first dates went, she thought this had been a good one. And his expression was so earnest, eager, and she couldn't help but appreciate that she had been given choice. He had _asked_. He had asked, and he hadn't assumed, and if Francesca said no, then he would be disappointed, but he would move on, or he would go back to what he had had before: casual flirting with mildly uncomfortable jokes, and that was all.

"Yes," she said. "A second date. Whenever works for you."

A second date turned into a third, and then a fourth. He met her after her classes, after dance practice, walking her between the dorms and the dining hall, picking up more of what she called John's guard dog shifts for her. He always tried to carry her books and her bags for her, and evenings on the Holmes Wing common room became different. He studied by her side, as often as not, while she read papers and took notes. She made tea for them both, and sometimes he took care of refilling the teapot and brewing tea for her. When they played poker, he liked having her beside him, letting her make some of his decisions if John wasn't there; when they won, largely because Francesca didn't need John's Legilimency to count cards, he took her out to an Italian place that had the best gnocchi Francesca had ever tasted.

They cuddled on the leather sofas in the Holmes Wing, Francesca's head nestled against his shoulder while she read romance novels. He was a solid, comforting bulk behind her, and he didn't laugh too much at her books, or when he did, he always dropped an affectionate kiss on her hair afterwards and told her that quite seriously that he wasn't jealous of her fictional boyfriends. Occasionally, Merric or Seaver or someone would yell at them that they were being too cute, and to go get a room, to which Faleron always told them, a happy smile on his face, that if they couldn't put up with it, they could leave. He was a dorm monitor, and they weren't.

She went to watch his duelling practices sometimes, where she had the all-important task of holding his jacket. It was a team jacket – light blue, with the AIM crest embroidered in gold on the back and his last name, _King_, emblazoned across the top. It was cold, one day in February, so she pulled it on and the look on his face when he saw was precious: full of happiness, pride, and something that she didn't really know how to parse.

She had taken it off, offering it back to him with a faint blush after practice. "It's – I was cold," she explained, missing the warmth almost as soon as she had pulled it off.

"It looks good," he said in reply, taking his jacket and wrapping it back around her shoulders. "I like it. Keep it."

It was too big for her, but from that point on, she wore his jacket, breathing in his comforting scent whenever she felt lost or lonely. It was a touchstone, a part of him that she could carry with her when they were in their separate classes, when he was duelling or tutoring, when he wasn't beside her. Faleron smelled clean, like soap, and he didn't wear any other scents other than himself.

On Valentine's Day, Francesca woke to a rose at her door, and there was one waiting for her at each of her classes and dance practice that day. Faleron didn't mention anything about them at breakfast or lunch, despite her questioning looks, but he had another half-dozen waiting for her when he met her in the common room to go to dinner.

"This is…" she tried to say, her arms full of roses. "It's too much, Fals. It – it's only been a few weeks, and I – I only got you a card."

He smiled, a dimple appearing in his left cheek, reaching out to touch her hand. "But are you happy, Francesca?"

She looked down at the roses in her arm, noting that they didn't even have thorns on their stems. She buried her nose in the bouquet, letting the scent fill her nose as she thought about it.

"Yes," she said, lifting her face to look up at him. The roses were really nice, and he didn't have to get them for her. They were even real, not spell-made roses, so she reached up on the tips of her toes to kiss him. He caught her lips, surprised, and his mouth was soft, dry, and he tasted like mint. "I am happy."

"Then that'll be good enough for me." He grinned, a little pink, and draped one arm over her shoulders as they crossed the campus to go to the dining hall.

John disapproved of the whole affair. Francesca wondered if he might not always disapprove of who she dated, so she ignored him and his unspoken thoughts when they were hanging out. His cool silence, however, bothered Faleron more than he would say.

"It's not you, Fals, it's me," Francesca tried to explain to him, one evening when they were relaxing in front of the fire in Holmes Wing. She was in his lap as he lounged in one of the sofas, her cheek resting against his chest, hearing the calm, steady beat of his heart. "He's just… he worries. About all of us. He's – he's trying to keep us from being hurt."

Faleron had been stroking her back with one lazy hand, running fingers through her loose hair, and he stopped. "That ain't up to him," he replied softly, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. She had come to learn that he often self-corrected his accent somewhat among others, but when he relaxed, he dropped back into a slow, Southern drawl. "He can't protect everyone from everything, and he shouldn't try. Sometimes, getting hurt is worth it."

Francesca thought about it, then she sighed and snuggled a little closer to him, closing her eyes.

Faleron wasn't Aldon. He wasn't anything like Aldon – he was normal, he was reliable, he was understandable. He was responsible, managing both his dorm monitor responsibilities and corralling the Duelling Club executive with ease, and Francesca knew he did well in his classes, especially Defense, Transfigurations, and Wizarding Law. He had gotten into law school already, an early acceptance, but he was modest and hadn't yet mentioned it to his friends. He was steady, and he was safe, and he made things easier for her.

But he wasn't Aldon. He didn't understand the ACD, he didn't understand when Francesca talked about magical theory, or runes, or materials engineering. He listened when she talked about it, but he didn't understand it, and he didn't realize that the ACD more than just a cool invention to her. He didn't appreciate that, for Francesca, the ACD was something that would change the world; the ACD would make wand use obsolete, it would revolutionize spell-casting as they knew it and set the establishment aflame. He didn't understand that, for Francesca, the ACD was a weapon, that it was the one thing that Francesca hoped would one day make her normal; he didn't understand Francesca's deep-seated rage at the world, that had given her magic but not the ability to harness it and use it like everyone else.

Faleron made things easy, and with him, Francesca could be someone simpler, someone easier, and someone happier.

XXX

_AN: And this is the chapter where I learned I cannot write naval warfare. I was very disappointed to learn this, because really, Faleron is pretty great. Thanks as always to meek_bookworm, my amazing beta-reader, and to the usual suspects! As always, I love reading your commentary, so drop me a line in a review (even if the line is just screaming)._

_Next Chapter: __I can see the storms in her eyes now / I'm falling overboard in the waves / In over my head and she's a high tide / That keeps pushing me away / I thought that we would build this together / But everything I touch just seems to break (House on Fire, by Rise Against)_


	15. Chapter 15

_I am aware that this goes beyond our usual discourse, but I was wondering, simba, if you might be able to provide me with an update on a certain dancer in whom I am interested? I am sure that you will be able to understand my meaning. I am unable to reach her for a private conversation, nor has she replied to my letters. I admit some measure of concern and would appreciate any information you may be comfortable providing me._

Archie stared at the computer screen. The time stamp on the email, sent to his _Bridge_ account, told him that _hawk_ had sent it some three days ago, but with computers not working at AIM and the resulting lack of internet, Archie could only access his email once a week or so at the public library in town. He had sent in two weeks' worth of reports last weekend, pointedly going on a science fiction and dystopian bent, but Hermione had more to send in and he took the student shuttle in with her every Saturday. And since he was _here_, he might as well check his email.

It wasn't as though Archie hadn't guessed who _hawk_ had to be before. Based on the edits made and the way that _hawk_ wrote, there were only so many people that he could have been, but Archie had never bothered to confirm his guesses. That was part of _Bridge _too – if Archie was ever caught out, he didn't want to be able to name anyone.

Aldon shouldn't have broken the code they used, as vague as he had made his comments, and the fact that he had told Archie that he was desperate. Archie understood – he remembered too well the months when Hermione hadn't talked to him, and he hadn't even thought his romantic feelings had been returned, then. It had to be worse for Aldon, who knew very well that Chess had more than friendly feelings towards him, who had fought a duel over her, and then who had, from his perspective, been rejected.

Archie understood why Chess had rejected him. Aldon had crossed a line by so much that if Archie wasn't so horrified, he would have been impressed. But he also understood Aldon – Aldon had seen an opportunity to get what he wanted, sidestepping the Marriage Law, and he had gone for it. Was it the right thing to do? Maybe not.

But Archie understood what it was like to feel trapped by the Ministry and circumstance – he was still engaged to Harry, after all – so he couldn't really be angry at Aldon. Hermione had advised him to stay out of it, so he was trying.

Regardless, he couldn't leave this email unanswered. He understood too well what Aldon was going through – radio silence was _hard_. And while he knew that Chess still had meetings with Blake & Associates, of which Aldon was part, it had to be even harder for him to talk to her professionally, but not at all about what had happened over the holiday.

And with Chess getting together with Faleron King, Archie felt like he had to say something, if only to tell Aldon to move on. Chess and Faleron had become, in the opinion of half the school, the _cutest_ AIM couple. They walked around hand in hand, Faleron picked her up from half her classes and carried her bag for her, and word from John, annoyed as he was, was that they were often seen cuddling in the Holmes Wing common room. Archie had even gone over there once, just to see for himself. True to John's word, they had been in a cushy armchair close to a window, Chess reading a paper with her legs draped over his lap, while Faleron read a book.

He picked at the keys carefully.

_Hawk: I do know what you're referring to, but might I suggest you leave it alone? It's not my place to get involved here, but I don't think you'll get anything out of chasing it further. _

He hesitated, reading it over. It was short. It was simple. It wasn't very clear, and he sounded like an arse, telling Aldon to let it go without anything farther. He deleted the last part of what he had written.

_It's not my place to get involved here, but she's seeing someone,_ he wrote finally.

Chess looked happy. He saw less of her now than he did before, since she usually ate with Faleron and they didn't have any classes together, but her dancing had more verve and she was often smiling or giggling when she was with him. Good for her, he thought, and he hit _send_ on his email.

He should have known that wasn't the end.

_Explain_, Aldon's next email said, a week later. Archie winced, imagining his hawk-like eyes glittering in danger. _Who is he? What is his background? What are his resources? Is he powerful?_

Archie rubbed his forehead, not knowing where to begin. None of those things were important for Chess, but at the same time, it was logical for Aldon to go there. First, it was a large part of what he had been raised to value; second, it was something that he felt like he could control. Picking apart Faleron's _resources _and _connections_ was a thousand times easier than just accepting that she had moved on.

At least it was an easy answer for him to give. He didn't know the answers to any of those questions – he didn't know Faleron all that well, having only spoken to him alone a half-dozen times. He was part of John's circle of Duelling friends, with whom Archie had never really gotten close. Not for lack of desire, because they were all very friendly and Archie liked them all, but they didn't share any classes together and Archie himself wasn't in Duelling. Archie could just reply honestly.

_To reply to your other question, I don't know_, Archie replied, after he had typed out another two weeks of Muggle culture reviews. _He's a seventh year, not in Healing, and I barely know him. But hawk, I don't think those things you mentioned – background, resources, magical power – are important. It's probably better to move on. _He hit send, and he hoped that would be enough.

That wasn't all that was happening. People were disappearing – not people that the _Daily Prophet _made much fuss over, but Archie heard the reports. There were people in the Ministry gone, Guild members, shopkeepers from Diagon Alley. Hermione said that there had been an increase in unsolved violent crimes in Muggle Britain, too – there was a front-page headline about it in _The Telegraph, _one of Britain's largest papers, announcing that the Muggle government had lost control and delinquents were running the streets. Hermione rolled her eyes at the hyperbole, but the fact was that Voldemort's followers were almost certainly contributing to the Muggle crime wave.

For Wizarding Britain, however, the major news in the _Daily Prophet_ was the attack on Azkaban Prison, in the North Sea, on the last week of February. It had been absolute bedlam at the Ministry, with Lady Lestrange and a dozen of Voldemort's followers at large. The Ministry had instituted a manhunt for them, apparently the largest one in Wizarding British history, with upbeat daily updates published in the Daily Prophet. _A breakthrough,_ each day seemed to promise, _and_ _only a few more days before all prisoners are arrested and returned to Azkaban. _Weeks in, they were no closer than they had started.

_Bridge_ reported on it too, though with a much more sombre attitude. Archie had no _idea_ who Aldon had found in the Ministry to leak information, but there was a confidential report that the Dementors had abandoned Azkaban, and the Ministry didn't have the Auror resources to guard the island while conducting a search for the escaped prisoners. All Ministry employees except for those in _critical_ professions had been pulled into the search, and _Bridge'_s editorial, authored by _rabbit, kelpie, _and _hawk,_ was scathing.

_The Ministry of Magic, helped by the Daily Prophet_,_ continues to obfuscate the true nature of the situation from the public. Azkaban Prison no longer exists, and it is likely that the Dementors have joined with the so-called Voldemort. The much-vaulted manhunt reported by the Daily Prophet is hampered by staffing issues as Ministry employees resign, and it is not reasonable to conclude that reassigning Ministry staff to provide more support to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will have any effect whatsoever. The staff of other departments – clerks, administrators, analysts – are ill-equipped to handle Auror duties, not for lack of ability but for lack of training._

_The truth is, Wizarding Britain may be paying the price for its unequal political process and ingrained blood prejudice. Ministry employees, both pureblooded and not, feel no need to throw themselves or their families in harm's way for a political system that has never given them voice. For the lesser-blooded, the contrast is more extreme – there is no incentive to help a state that has systematically discriminated against them, even recently passing laws restricting their marriage options. _

_Bridge encourages all readers to exercise due caution and awareness and to provide any and all relevant information to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As poorly as the Ministry may be coping with the present situation, all evidence suggests that the so-called Voldemort, were he to come to power, would be worse._

It was the most inflammatory piece _Bridge_ had ever published, and Archie heard that the delivery mechanisms were being revamped, with Muggle methods used to the extent possible and delivery done under Disillusionment Charms with timers to ensure the paper appeared long after the delivery person had disappeared. The good thing about the Ministry being in an uproar was that there were also no resources to hunt them down, which Aldon had no doubt had been considered before publishing the editorial.

Dad was finally reading Bridge, cover to cover, much to Archie's relief. They could write a little more openly now; with the escape from Azkaban and the Ministry's staffing issues, it was unlikely that their mail was still being monitored. Further, with the so-called Voldemort out in the open and _Bridge_ publishing the remarks it had, as long as Archie's letters didn't pre-date when pieces were published, he could pretend that he was simply a reader and was repeating ideas after they came out in the public. Much to Archie's worry, though, Dad was trying to convince him to stay in the States.

_Arch, it's not a matter of courage,_ Dad had written, _but a matter of safety. There's no reason for you to return, when no one knows clearly what is happening. Ask if you can stay with your friend John – I've always wanted to see New York City! Go see a show on Broadway or three, enjoy yourself, and you can tell me all about it later._

If Dad was going to leave Britain too, Dad and everyone else Archie cared about, then he might have considered it. But Dad wasn't going to leave Britain – not without Uncle Remus, who as a werewolf would struggle to emigrate anywhere, and not with his responsibilities as both the Lord Black and as the current stand-in for the Lord Potter. Neal, too, was stuck – he was able to leave his castle for almost a week at a time now, but anything longer and he still got backlash headaches. And Hermione had told him pointedly that she would not be fleeing abroad, not without her family, who as No-Majs would have incredible difficulty leaving through the No-Maj emigration system, and what about everyone else? What about the people they left behind?

Archie could use his privilege to stay abroad, where it was safer, but something at him balked. Derrick wasn't leaving, and so many newbloods and halfbloods wouldn't, or they couldn't. How could he turn around and face people if he ran?

He wrote back a letter thanking Dad for his concern, but he was still coming home for the summer. His family was in Britain, and he couldn't leave Dad and Uncle Remus there, or his other friends. The student flight to Terminal M was still going ahead, a hundred and fifty newbloods and halfbloods from Britain and continental Europe on it, and not all of them would be able to find people outside of Britain to stay with for a three-month summer. Archie would go home – there was no question about it. All he could do was be careful, as careful as he could, and he promised Dad that he would.

In the middle of March, Chess caught him during a break in his theatre rehearsals. _A Streetcar Named Desire_ this term – Archie had won the role of Mitch, while Thea had the starring role of Blanche DuBois.

"Are you free on Saturday morning?" she asked, pulling her messenger bag over a loose jacket, one that read _King_ on the back. "Aldon says he needs to talk to you. Eight in the morning? You can still catch the shuttle into town for later, or I can ask Fals to drive us to the library. I need to email something to my dad anyway."

Archie blinked, taken aback as he reached for his bottle of water. "Yeah, of course. What's up?"

Chess shrugged, nonchalant. "I don't know. I didn't ask. He said to get Hermione, and I'll get John."

"Sure." Archie nodded, a little slowly. If it was all of them, it had to be serious. "Saturday at eight in the morning. I'll ask Hermione to book us a room in Seaton House with her BSA powers."

On Saturday morning, Chess met them, John at her side, in the small study room that Hermione had reserved. Chess wore an odd, set look on her face, but pulled her comm orb out of her bag with little ado.

"Hello, Aldon," she said, something iron underneath her usual soft tone, taking a seat in the chair that John pulled out for her, then pulling out a paper, something from a No-Maj scientific journal, to set in front of her. A tray of tea levitated in and set itself on the table. "As you requested – I have Archie, Hermione, and John with me."

A short pause, and Aldon's voice came over, more hesitant than Archie would have expected. "Thank you, Francesca. I have with me Neal and the Lord Black. And Alexander Willoughby Dragić, Derrick Holden and Toby MacLean."

"Dad!" Archie lit up with a wary smile. By the list of names, it had to be worse than Archie had thought, but it had been so long since he had heard Dad's voice!

"Sirius, _please_, Aldon." Dad's voice came over the comm orb, both amused and exasperated. According to Dad, Aldon couldn't help but put him in the same category as Lords like the Lord Malfoy, or the Lord Parkinson, whom he would never have called by name, but Dad kept trying. "I don't stand on ceremony, and neither should you. I'm about to _order_ you to call me by name."

"He wouldn't listen." That voice wasn't one that Archie recognized, so he assumed that it had to be Alexander Willoughby – the one person he hadn't met. He had a small lisp, which was somehow surprising to Archie. With wand-casting so incantation-focused, most mages had speech therapy or something like that early on, so he had never heard a lisp in an adult before. "He doesn't listen very well."

"We need to talk," Derrick interrupted, abrupt, his voice serious. John had taken charge of the tea, pouring mugs for all four of them while Chess kept the communication link active. "Toby and I didn't come out to Queenscove for nothing. Who is this guy?"

There was a moment of awkward silence, as Alexander apparently didn't bother introducing himself or justifying himself in any way. Archie thought that Toby and Derrick had to be staring pointedly at him, a faceless figure in Archie's imagination, who was now glaring back.

"Captain Dragić is part of the Dhampiri Order," Neal said, trying to sound reassuring. "He has considerable war experience. I'll vouch for him, and Aldon does too."

Archie exchanged a look with Hermione, who was frowning, almost as if she was trying to remember something. John, however, shifted uncomfortably. Archie raised an eyebrow, but the bigger boy shook his head. It wasn't like him, especially the marked look of distaste on his face, so Archie kept the pressure on, demanding an answer. It took a moment, before he sighed and knocked Chess' hand off the comm orb.

"Dhampir are part-vampires." John's voice was quiet, and he sounded as uncomfortable as he looked. "They inherit some of the speed and strength, and the bloodlust, but most of them are sworn to the protection of the rest of the world from vampires. I don't know much else about them, but Alexander Willoughby was the alternate for Hogwarts last year. He was the one cleaned up the National Magic School of China in the Triwizard finals. I didn't pick up on the dhampir part then, but it explains a lot."

"I can come back later, when the two of you are ready to train," Alexander said, seemingly bored, and there was the sound of the scrape of a chair against stone floors. "There is no need for me to be here."

"No." Aldon's voice was immediate. "Please stay, Alex."

There was a pause. "An extra hour in the lists. Running. Or I'm leaving."

Someone on the other end burst into laughter, crackling a little over the comm orb connection. "Is that how we're trading things, now?" Toby asked, voice light. "Hours spent working out?"

"It's what I am paid for," Alex replied, his voice flat, but Archie guessed that he must have sat down because there was that scraping noise again. "Very well. To your concerns – I am a halfblood, though I went to Hogwarts, and I'm Serbian. I have no interest in reporting you to anyone, and I will swear so if you demand it. Aldon knows I am speaking truth."

"And I've warded the premises for secrecy," Aldon added, his voice quick. "None of us can talk about this elsewhere – not without choking on our words."

There was an awkward silence. Archie glanced over at his friends, but Chess was reading her paper, while John and Hermione seemed to be looking at him for a response. He looked back down at the light green orb, thinking it over.

Aldon and Neal had vouched for him, and Archie trusted them. Aldon would have said if anything Alex said was a lie, and Alex was willing to swear to silence, if necessary. Alex was a halfblood, and not British. And, bizarrely, it meant something to Archie that Alex didn't seem to care one way or the other about listening – if he was a spy with any interest in selling them out, Archie thought that he would be fighting harder to stay. And Aldon said there was a ward.

"It's fine," he heard himself saying. "I don't need an oath. Aldon, Neal, I'll trust you. What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

There was the sound of a heavy sigh, and Aldon's voice was grim. "Thank you, Archie. The _Daily Prophet_."

"What about the _Daily_ _Prophet_?" Hermione leaned forward, her attention caught by his tone, her mug of tea halfway to her lips. She put it down with a thud. "What happened?"

"It was attacked earlier this week. Burned to the ground." It was Toby who answered, his accent stronger for the seriousness of his words. "Six dead."

"That's… that's _awful_." Archie's face crumpled a little, thinking about it. He had never liked the paper, but people were people, and no one could give a life back. Not everyone who worked for the _Daily Prophet _necessarily believed in their views – people needed work. "I mean, the _Daily Prophet_ might have been garbage, but those poor people… What happened?"

"My sources tell me that there were a few open letters from the so-called Voldemort that he sought to publish," Aldon replied, calm but coldly stiff, which Archie had long since learned meant that he was uncomfortable. It was as if Aldon thought certain emotions were not things he was allowed to show, and any form of upset was among them. Instead, Aldon just got cold and stiff. "The _Prophet_ refused, of course. It was only a pretext in any case; the so-called Voldemort could not have expected that they would publish his letters, so it was only a reason to set up the attack and burn it to the ground. The attack happened at night, fortunately – fewer people than usual were at the offices, and most of the night staff were able to get out."

"We're publishing the obits in _Bridge_ this week," Derrick cut in, his voice hard. "Those six people will be remembered."

There was another moment of silence, this one more solemn, and Hermione reached out to grab Archie's hand under the table. John had frowned, in thought, while Chess had looked up briefly from her paper, expression inscrutable. Archie heard Dad start speaking, and he could almost picture the look on Dad's face; he would be worried, he would want them to shut down for safety reasons, because they were just a bunch of _kids_ and—

"This means that, with most of the established papers reporting on niche topics only, _Bridge_ is the sole source of political information that the public is going to receive for the foreseeable future," Dad said, and Archie blinked, taking another look at the orb. His dad's voice was grim, but he wasn't telling them they needed to shut down. "The Ministry will be putting resources into putting the Daily Prophet back together, but it will take weeks to replace the equipment, the staff will be scared and running, and the Ministry is low on resources with the hunt for the Azkaban escapees anyway."

"That's … right." From the pause, Archie knew that Aldon was surprised, but he covered it well. "I am not suggesting we change anything about the paper itself. Bluntly, even if more writers were available, our distribution issues are such that we cannot turn ourselves into a daily paper without seriously compromising our security. But this puts us in a very different position, both in terms of exposure and risk."

"More readers, because we're the only source of information they have, and that means more influence," Derrick said, and his voice was tight, pensive. "We're not increasing circulation supply. People can make copies for their friends and families on their own. It's too much risk to increase circulation and distribution beyond what we have."

"How overwhelmed is the Ministry?" Hermione's expression was fixed in the one that Archie called _thinking a million things in a minute_. The question was calm, too direct – people sometimes thought that Hermione was abrasive, and that she didn't care, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Hermione did care, and deeply, it was just that she tried to take her feelings and use them to fuel more work, to _do_ _something_ _useful_, as she called it. _"_There will also be more risk, as you said, but how much more? How is our security?"

"We're talking about that," Toby replied, still more serious than Archie usually heard him. "We're keeping to the system we have – as few names as possible, and we keep as much electronic as possible. No papers copies of _anything, _burn your drafts after you send them 're changing our printing facilities to somewhere safer, still in the Muggle world, and we'll change it up every few months. It's not perfect, but it'll have to do."

"As for the Ministry, my contacts say that anything except Voldemort is not the priority." Dad's voice was thoughtful, but stern. "The public is flooding in tips for the escaped Azkaban prisoners, so the Aurors are running ragged after them. There are arrests being made for people allegedly in support of the so-called Voldemort, but I would shave my head if any of them were legitimate."

"That doesn't matter, in any case." Aldon's tone was firm. "They don't have Azkaban Prison anymore, and the Ministry cells were never intended to hold people long term. My sources report fighting in the cells, and there are often escapes. None of ours have been arrested or attacked – I am passing word of any arrest warrant or planned attack I hear about onto the Welsh, the shifters, and the Clans, and so far we have been successful in keeping a low profile. And hopefully, Voldemort too will be focused on the Ministry; my spy doesn't have any information about any planned attack on _Bridge_. What is the international perception, currently?"

Hermione exchanged a glance with John, but John nodded for her to go ahead, and she leaned forward. "The BIA is reporting an increase in immigration claims, especially for blood refugees, from Wizarding Britain. In a way, it's good that the Marriage Law was passed – historically, since few purebloods wanted to marry newbloods or halfbloods, newbloods and halfbloods married amongst themselves. Now, those marriages are considered invalid, a clear discriminatory effect that most other nations recognize. I don't have exact numbers, just a copy of the BIA submissions."

"From MACUSA's side, I can say that it came to my dad's attention, and Wizarding America has committed to admitting twice the usual number of blood refugees this year than they usually do, subject to our usual requirements." John was frowning slightly, and Archie knew what he wasn't saying – MACUSA would be screening heavily for anyone with any taint of magical creatures. No shifters, no werewolves, no part-Veela or other part-creatures. No one with close associations with creatures, or part-creatures. "Gerry says that Wizarding Germany and the Nordics are planning on accepting more refugees as well, but not as many as America – the language barrier is an issue, so there are fewer applicants, and their populations are smaller so they can't absorb as many immigrants."

"My brother said that Wizarding Canada is seeing an uptick too," Neal added from the other side of the orb. "He doesn't have details, but a schoolmate of his passed the message along. Wizarding Canada is a lot like the Nordics and Germany though – while language is less of an issue, we still _prefer_ bilingual mages, and our population is a lot smaller too. We can't support the numbers MACUSA can."

"Does anyone know anything about Australia? Kowalski?" Aldon asked, and Archie heard the scratch of a pen on paper. Aldon had to be taking notes. "I imagine they are seeing the same. And what about other support?"

"I haven't heard or seen anything in the news, but it isn't as though statistical trends are published until months afterwards. I can ask my cousin Rolf about Australia, see if he knows anyone, but he's like Great-Uncle Newt – he never liked politics. I'll ask. As for other support, what are you thinking?" John blew out a small breath. "It's not as if another condemnation statement will go anywhere."

There was a brief pause from the orb, then Aldon spoke again. "Monetary or other support?"

His voice was hopeful, or as hopeful as the proud, acerbic man ever got, but there was a hard splutter of laugh from the other side. "You have a paper, Aldon. Not a government. A _paper_."

That was the unfamiliar voice, Alex. Archie winced.

John and Hermione exchanged another look, and John shook his head, leaning towards the orb again. His voice was slow, but steady. "It would go against the sovereignty of nations for MACUSA or anyone else to offer financial or military aid when there hasn't been a formal plea for assistance."

"It's considered an internal governance matter," Neal added grimly, his voice echoing out from the orb. "According to my brother, the British delegation at the International Confederation of Wizards is still brushing over the whole affair as internal unrest that is being addressed. Unless that line changes, it's only going to be increased refugee acceptance, not even humanitarian aid."

"MACUSA takes a bit of a broader approach." John sighed, making a face, reaching for an taking a gulp from his mug of tea. "We've been known to interfere more than we should in other nations' affairs – but I think you would still need some sort of legitimacy, a sign that _you _are the legitimate, preferably democratically-elected, government of Wizarding Britain. You might have widespread support, but _Bridge _still recognizes the legitimacy of the Ministry of Magic."

Hermione ran one frustrated hand through her bushy curls, while Archie squeezed her other hand in reassurance. "And we have to do that so that we aren't all arrested and charged with sedition. It would be hard to say that the Ministry wasn't legitimate – even if it's undemocratic and appointed by the Wizengamot, it's been Wizarding Britain's government for centuries. That's what the other nations are going to see – and I don't know how to fix that. I don't see how we're going to get past that."

There was a long stretch of silence, and from the fact that Aldon didn't say anything, Archie knew that meant he didn't have an answer either. He looked around his room – Hermione looked more lost than he was used to seeing, while John was leaning back in his chair, face set. Chess was looking down at her paper still, but Archie hadn't seen her flip a page and she didn't seem to have moved past the first two paragraphs.

"So…" Archie said eventually, scrambling for something, _anything _to suggest. "So, what can we do? We can't just sit here, waiting. We have to do something – we have to show that the Ministry isn't fully in control anymore, we need to show both Wizarding Britain and the world what is really happening. We can't just sit here. Can we, I don't know, can't we at least warn people about the attacks that we hear about?"

"We could." Aldon drew the word out, thoughtful, and Archie just knew that it would be followed by a _but_. "I like the suggestion, Archie, but the problem is that I often don't receive much warning. Most of the attacks on families seem to spur of the moment, rather than planned in any real detail – my source hears an idea, and it often isn't solid."

Archie nodded slowly, still feeling unsatisfied. Aldon wasn't wrong, but they had to do _something_. Publishing warnings was better than nothing. "Yeah, but I want to publish any warnings we can – even if we just publish possible targets, I think that would save lives_._"

"It is risky for my source if it appears that we know too much about the attacks," Aldon replied, still measured, "but it could sow some dissension in Voldemort's ranks as well. We can see what we can do."

"You need a quick alert system," Alex said, his voice once again laconic and bored. "Your own wireless station, or you need to break into the Wizarding Wireless Network regularly to give warnings."

"We don't really have the equipment for our own wireless, or the skills to break into the WWN…" Aldon's voice trailed off, sounding dubious. "Or the manpower to run a radio station…"

"The No-Maj world regulates radio frequencies, but I might know someone who can give us an in," Toby added, his voice sounding considerably more upbeat. "Pirate radio stations are all the rage right now, so the main thing would really be the equipment and manpower, and there would be a _Statute of Secrecy _risk too, but I think we can work around that."

"Good, then you can look into it." Aldon sighed. "For now, let's continue reaching out to people for support. Archie, would you contact Saoirse Riordan at Ilvermorny? As I understand it, she is highly respected in the Irish wizarding community and connected to the underground Gaelic paper. She can spread the word in Ireland. She has not responded to me, but it may mean something if _you _write – you're a symbol, so it will mean more coming from you than anyone else."

"Yeah," Archie replied, feeling helpless and frustrated and disappointed all at once. "Yeah, I can do that."

Here they were, eight months after his trial, and it seemed like they had made no strides at all in Wizarding Britain. They were no closer to widespread enfranchisement than they had started, and none of the newblood or halfblood discrimination laws had been struck. Worse, it seemed to him that Voldemort had pushed things entirely in the wrong direction – before, only newblood and halfblood rights and freedoms had been a target, and now it seemed like the people themselves were under attack. And the Ministry didn't seem able to do anything. Azkaban prison was thrown open, the Daily Prophet was destroyed, and if anything, Voldemort seemed to be gaining power.

He wanted to do more. But he didn't know what more he could do.

XXX

Francesca sat outside Professor Ryan's office, a highlighter in her hand as she skimmed another academic paper. Things were good; Albert had developed a device, loosely based on the magical core measuring tool that already existed, to examine magical frequency, while Aldon had taken charge of using it to get data. Data, data, data, from his mother, from everyone at Blake & Associates, from all of his connections through _Bridge_ and Neal. Combined with her deep dive into materials engineering, they were building something like a rough scale, identifying what magical frequencies corresponded to electromagnetic frequencies, and the ACD, once again, felt within her reach.

Everything was good. She and Javier were well prepared for the dance competition. True to Michelle's words, Francesca had taken easily to cabaret, and their routine featured an intense three lifts, a swing and two throws. They were going to break the technical scoring scale, and Michelle even said that their piece, tragic as it was and danced to an instrumental Romeo and Juliet arrangement, had heart. They were going to win; Francesca could feel it.

Francesca felt better than she had in years – less anxious, less panicked, less worried. She had to credit Fals with much of it; he was always there, always ready to lend her some of his warmth and steadiness, and with him beside her, she felt calmer than she had nearly since she had started at AIM. He paid attention to her, he showered her with affection and more than anything else, she _felt_ loved when she was with him. He wasn't another John, who was tied to her in a way that he couldn't get away from; Fals was someone who had chosen to be close to her.

For her sixteenth birthday, he had driven to Charleston with her for the day. They had trawled through the museum, which Francesca had appreciated – she had always loved museums, though not much could compare to the enormous British Museum in London. It meant more that Fals didn't even like museums that much, but he had taken her anyway, and then they had found a trendy place for lunch and explored the city at their own pace. Just before they had left, he had directed her to a teddy bear café, serving tea and cake, all surrounded by teddy bears. The amount of pink and lace in the shop had been a bit disconcerting even for Francesca, but he had gifted her with a pristine new bear at the end that he had hidden in his backpack, one that she recognized immediately as a Steiff. She had protested, because they were expensive, but he had only leaned down to kiss her and told her not to worry, he had gotten it used and a little tattered, and he had fixed it up with a few Charms. He wanted her to be happy, and if she was, then he considered it a job well done.

She had thought about asking him into her room that night, but Fals would have declined anyway. In many ways, Fals was traditional, like Aldon, though she thought she could understand Fals a bit better. He was a Southerner, he was Christian, and he valued his faith and his family highly. He had two younger brothers, both of whom had chosen to school at Cascadia, but he spoke about them often and wrote them even more often.

The only problem was that he didn't understand the ACD. He listened to her talk about the ACD if she wanted, but he didn't have the magical theory or runes or engineering knowledge to follow. It was a pretty major problem, however – for Francesca, the ACD was one of the most important things in her life. She had chosen, over the holidays, to return to Britain for business meetings over it rather than see her family; she would make that decision again, not least because her parents fully supported her in that decision and told her that her work was important. But how could she explain that to Fals, when he came from such a different background, when he didn't understand the ACD?

But the ACD was only one thing, and Fals was so _good_ about everything else, that Francesca tried not to worry about it. Over the months, she spoke to him less about the ACD, and more about dance, or their mutual friends, or the latest movie they had seen, and sometimes she just listened to him talk about whatever he wanted to talk about.

The rumblings of war in Britain were worrying. She wasn't British, but Archie and Hermione were, and her funding was based in Britain. Morning ACD meetings now had an underlying tension, vibrating through people's voices while they discussed magical theory and advanced charms and proto-runic syllabary, and Francesca feared that at some point, Albert or Aman or another of her collaborators would leave. Spelled non-disclosure agreements alleviated some of her worry that they would sell her project elsewhere, but she _liked_ them, and they were good for the ACD. It would take months for anyone new to get up to speed on the project if any of them left. She hoped, vaguely, that Christie might take the entire firm out of Britain into America, but Aldon would never leave Britain and Christie would never leave Aldon. And so, for the foreseeable future, her funding was tied up in Britain.

She had asked a few preliminary questions of John, when she caught his eye recently, and he had let her know silently that he thought their immigration applications to Wizarding America could be expedited, if they needed it. All her main collaborators, with the exception of Aldon, were trained in America, and they would be bringing over a major business with a promising project. They were exactly the sort of immigrants that Wizarding America loved.

"Francesca?" Professor Ryan's voice floated out of her office in Thompson Hall, and Francesca stood up, quickly tucking her paper and highlighter back into her messenger bag. "Come on in."

Professor Ryan was seated behind a messy oak desk, wisps of her hair framing her face like a lion. Francesca had never had Professor Ryan as a teacher, but the redheaded woman had been her faculty advisor since her first year, when she had been moved into the Exceptionals program. Aside from being an accomplished witch, Professor Ryan had worked for several years as an engineer in the No-Maj world and had been incredibly helpful through her first few years struggling through ACD development.

She had Francesca's individualized education plan in front of her, showing a straight line of passes in Francesca's most heavily accommodated classes and accomplished, if not top, grades her other classes. Only Charms, Defense, and Transfigurations actually required much wandwork; Herbology and Potions had always used other methods of magical imbuing, and Francesca's electives had always tended towards the theoretical and non-wand-using classes anyway. For all that some people made a huge deal about Francesca's accommodations, in truth, half of her classes had no accommodations at all.

Francesca took a seat in the cushioned chair across from the professor, whose blue eyes skimmed the report in front of her, her mouth a considering line. Professor Ryan set the sheet of Francesca's grades down on the desk beside her, looking up with a small, not unfriendly smile. "How have you been, Francesca?"

"Um, fine?" Francesca twisted her hands in her lap, a little awkward. It was unusual for Professor Ryan to set up a meeting with her at this time. They _were_ supposed to have regular meetings since Francesca was on an individualized education plan, but they had just had one of those a month ago, so she wasn't sure what to make of this meeting. "Things are fine, I mean – I'm doing well. I'm not sure – I don't know what you mean."

"And your ACD project?"

"It's going really well, Professor," Francesca said, feeling herself light up. "My collaborators and I have made a lot of progress in the last eight weeks. We worked out a proto-runic syllabary, we developed an ACD that holds a small ward and casts in thirty-six seconds, and we have a measuring device for magical frequency. Unfortunately, it only works for the visible light spectrum right now, but we are continuing work on it. It's very exciting."

Professor Ryan favoured her enthusiasm with a wider smile. "That's good to hear, Francesca. I'm glad that things are going so well for you right now, so I'm hoping you'll be able to consider what I'm about to suggest."

She picked up Francesca's academic records – more than just the past year, Francesca realized, but her complete academic history while at AIM, from her troubled first year until now. She ran her finger through Francesca's electives: Magical Theory, Runes, Research Methods, Song-casting, other non-wand classes. "I don't like to put it this way, Francesca, but without a wand and with these classes, you've fairly exhausted the education that AIM can provide you. We are not a Magical Theory-oriented school, nor do we have a strong concentration in Runes, and while you've done well in picking out non-wand courses, there aren't many of those left in your interest areas for your sixth or seventh years. Professor Battista has also advised that you lack the magical power to enter his higher-level song-casting classes."

Francesca sat, frozen, her hands gripped hard in her lap. Intellectually, she knew that what Professor Ryan was true – after this year, she had taken all the Magical Theory classes on offer, and a wand was needed for the upper-year Curse-breaking class. She had wondered about Ward Construction, since Aldon seemed to construct wards with runes, but she hadn't been sure if that was a factor of his personal style or not. She had completed all the standard Runes classes, as well, so she had been thinking about replacing it with an individual study project or something of that sort.

"I think you need to consider a transfer to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Professor Ryan was saying, her expression serious. "Ilvermorny's strengths include Alchemy, Runes, and Magical Theory – they have a much wider course selection in these areas than we do, and we can easily transfer your records there. You could complete a Mastery in Runes."

Francesca didn't want to go to a new school. A new school wouldn't have John there to intercede on her behalf with other people, wouldn't have a big, familiar duelling club that she could lose herself in. There wouldn't be an Archie there, or a Hermione, and the whole idea filled her with dread. She didn't like new people.

"I—" she tried, but she had to take a breath. "But what if – what if I did some independent study projects, instead of coursework? Could I stay at AIM then? Or – or I could take some of the International Relations or Wizarding Law courses, or Latin, or some of your upper-year No-Maj Studies classes, in science, right? I mean, my parents want me to take the SATs anyway, so – so—"

Professor Ryan had a sympathetic look. "An independent study project is a lot of work, not just for you, but for the professors involved, and your likely projects, which I assume will largely be about the ACD, will be beyond most of their experience. You've never shown an interest in politics or law, and I don't want to see you signing up for classes you're not interested in just to stay at AIM. You have so much more potential than that. And in terms of No-Maj Studies, you are far beyond what I teach my seventh-years, even the advanced group looking at taking their SATs and getting admitted to a No-Maj college. It wouldn't be fair to my other students to put you in their classes when you're performing at the level you are."

Francesca looked down, to hide her expression, thinking fast. Professor Ryan wasn't _wrong, _but there had to be something she could say, or something she could do instead for academic credit.

Blake & Associates and the ACD. Their office was staffed with Masters in most disciplines, though not Magical Theory or Runes, but Christie was an Alchemy Mistress, Albert had his Mastery in Experimental Charms, and Aman was a Defense Mistress. There was also a Transfigurations Master and Christie had finally managed to fill their Potions Master position with someone from Australia. Francesca hadn't needed to work with either of them yet, but Jessica had said that she was interested in the project and that she would look at the blocking potion they were using to see if it could be further refined. There were Masters of most major disciplines within Blake & Associates.

The ACD was something like a graduate project, wasn't it? It sounded like something one of her dad's graduate students would do for a graduate thesis. Or, pieces of it were – the scope of the whole project was beyond even a doctoral thesis, so some parts of it had to be enough to count for two years of study.

"What if—" she choked out, looking up and trying not to stumble all over her words. "What if I found different Masters, ones that were better suited for the ACD project? I could – I could write academic papers explaining some of our results, including – including publishing some breakthroughs. I can't – because of our non-disclosure agreements, I can't publish too much, but some. Like a doctoral thesis. Would – would that be enough for two years of credits to graduate from AIM?"

Professor Ryan leaned back in her chair, which squeaked a little, thinking it over. She was rail-thin, bony, and even if she was kind more often than not, there was something tough and hard about her all the same. "You are talking about your collaborators, I assume. I think, Francesca, that this would depend on who they were, and whether they would agree to monitor your education. It's not out of the question, but we need more information before we can say anything conclusive."

"How—" Francesca looked up. She coughed, clearing her throat, which was closing up in her panic. "How long do I have to get the information for you? The people who would be overseeing me, and their agreement?"

Professor Ryan waved a hand, dismissive, but pulled out a package of papers from her desk and handed it to her – an information booklet for Ilvermorny, an updated version of the one that Francesca had gotten right when she had discovered her magic, when she was deciding how to rank her school choices. "Before the end of the school year will be fine, Francesca. I only wanted you to think about it, to get used to the idea. AIM and Ilvermorny can process your transfer late in the summer, if that is what you decide or if we cannot accept your proposed independent study project. I really do hate to tell you this, Francesca, but I don't think returning to AIM for schooling is an option for you. We don't have enough to offer in your areas of interest. Ilvermorny is a very good school, and you would do well there. I want you to think about it. Ilvermorny can get you a Runes Mastery – even if AIM approved your proposed independent study instead, we wouldn't grant you a Mastery."

"I don't need a Mastery," Francesca said quickly, picking up her messenger bag from where she had left it on the floor beside her, sliding the Ilvermorny booklet inside without looking at it. "I'll – A Mastery isn't that important to me. I'm going to go to a No-Maj college anyway, so maybe I can have some credits for my homeschooling curriculum, too?"

"I think that part could certainly be arranged, if that is what you want to do." Professor Ryan smiled again, a little sad. "That could only count for, at most, two classes, however. Just think it over, Francesca. Ilvermorny is a good place, and I'm sure you would meet people who would welcome you."

"I'll – I'll think about it," Francesca lied, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder, automatically checking for her defensive paper charms. She hadn't needed to use any recently, but they were still charged and ready to fire. "I'll have the information about a – I guess we can call it a thesis committee? I'll have it to you as soon as I can. Thank you."

She heard Professor Ryan sigh as she turned around and fled from her office, flying down two sets of stairs in Thompson Hall and navigating the maze of corridors with the ease of long practice. She had to talk to Christie about this – she was sure that Christie would at least consider it, and they all had Masteries. Only Aldon hadn't had one, but when they still talked, he had mentioned once or twice wanting to study for one in Magical Theory.

She could comm orb them, right now, if she wanted to talk to Aldon. It was about four-thirty her time, not even ten at night in Britain, but she didn't want to talk to Aldon. Aldon would hear how upset she was, and he would want answers, and she didn't want to talk to him anyway. They had a meeting tomorrow morning, so she would just ask Christie for a time that they could call and talk privately later, or something like that. Preferably without Aldon there, though she didn't know how she would arrange that. She didn't know how long it would take, and even if Fals would drive her to town to use the public pay phone, the connection there wasn't good for anything complicated.

She wished there was someone she could talk to about this _now_. Not John, and not Fals – both of them would encourage her to change to Ilvermorny, and they would tell her a dozen stories about the famous school. All of John's family had gone to Ilvermorny until he and his sister had broken with tradition, and Fals would raise the point about getting a Mastery in Runes, which AIM didn't offer. But mid-school transfers were rare, and Francesca didn't _want_ to go to a new school. It was hard enough coming to AIM for the first time, and that was before everything had gone bad, and she had known then that _everyone_ would be new in first year. She couldn't go somewhere where people would have already formed their friend groups, not when she didn't know anyone, not when no one would want to give her the time of day, and John and Fals wouldn't understand.

Much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to talk to Aldon. Aldon would understand, she thought – Aldon would support her wanting to just stay in Britain, war or no war, working with Blake & Associates full-time on the ACD. Her ACD even had wartime applications; no one could deny that John had had a marked edge in the Triwizard Tournament with the ACD, or that Aldon had pulled a win out of his duel relying on it. The more research they could do, the more they could expand the range of magical frequencies her device would work with, the more people they could equip with it. He would support her, and John and Fals wouldn't.

She was upset, and dance practice was a struggle. Technically, she was as good as she ever was, but her heart wasn't in it, and the emotions she had to pull on just weren't there. She mentioned something about a rough day to Javier, who let it go saying that they all had bad days, and Michelle dismissed her early to "get her head on straight." She trudged to her bag, pulling out her stack of paper charms to put safely under her bra strap, feeling very lost and out of sorts.

"Chess! Hey, Chess," Archie was calling her, and she turned around. He had been standing near the stage, heckling Thea for overacting as she played out one of Blanche Dubois' more dramatic moments, but he trotted over to her when she looked towards him. "What's up? You look – well, your dancing was off, like you were distracted, and the look on your face says that you're… hmmm, I don't know how to describe it. Like someone murdered your pet mouse or something."

Francesca couldn't help snorting. "_Murdered_ my – I don't have a pet mouse, Archie."

"I couldn't tell from your face." Archie raised an eyebrow, grey eyes inviting her to laugh with him. "But seriously, you look upset. Do you want to talk about it?"

Francesca hesitated. It wasn't as though Archie wasn't her friend, but even if they were the only two arts-inclined ones in their little foursome, she knew they weren't as close as he was with Hermine or John. "I just – bad day, you know," she fumbled.

Archie tilted his head, thinking about it, then he turned to the stage. "Oi, Sarah! I think we covered all my scenes for the day, so I'm taking off, is that all right? A thing came up, and I'll make up another rehearsal later, if you want."

The brunette at the edge of the stage, clipboard in hand, looked up. Francesca recognized her vaguely as the Director for the year. "That's fine, Arch, all you're doing is distracting Thea anyway. See you tomorrow."

"Great!" Archie beamed at her, before grabbing his own bag and a bottle of water from the side of the auditorium. "Come on, Chess – you look more bothered than I've seen since the holidays, and it's clearly bad enough that you can't wait for John or Faleron to finish Duelling practice."

Francesca paused, but she nodded eventually. Of everyone at school, Archie was probably the best choice. He had grown a lot since his first year, and he was good at listening to people. He would let her get her thoughts out, at least, before giving his opinion on anything.

He led her to a study room in Pettingill Hall, one of the smaller ones that gave them a little privacy. Francesca sat down in one of the chairs, softened by a Cushioning Charm to be more comfortable than it looked, and promptly put her head down on the desk with a heavy sigh.

"I can't conjure tea," Archie said sheepishly, dropping in the seat across from her. "I'm just – I don't have a teapot, and I'm no good at it. Do you want me to go get some from Seaton House?"

"I hate Seaton House tea." Francesca didn't look up from the desk. "It's always burnt and has no taste."

Archie laughed. "I can't actually tell, you know? I know your tea is better, somehow, but to me the main thing I taste different is that Seaton House tea is stronger. More caffeine for late night studying, as Hermione says, and she likes it for that reason. What's up, Chess?"

Francesca groaned, wondering where to start, but she supposed that there was no beating around it for her. "I had a meeting with Professor Ryan, my faculty mentor. I can't come back to AIM next year."

"Why not?" Archie leaned forward, his eyebrows creased in concern, resting one hand on his chin.

"Because AIM doesn't offer enough courses for me to fill out the upper years," Francesca admitted, rubbing at her eyes. "And that's – well, that's true. I'm through all the magical theory classes AIM has on offer, and all the Runes classes too. I did Research Methods in second year, and I guess I could take more, I don't know, Latin or International Relations or Wizarding Law, but I don't really want to take those classes either."

"What about the song-casting classes?" Archie's voice was calm, thoughtful. "There are two more years of those courses, right?"

"I don't have the magical power," Francesca muttered in reply. "You need to score at least blue on the magical power scale for those classes. I don't have that kind of power. I'm… kind of an orange colour."

Archie made a face, sympathetic. "I really hate that, you know, that some areas are just roped off if you don't have enough magical power. It shouldn't matter, it's not something that we can control, and I know that some things just _take_ more power – Infectious Disease requires blue too – but I really don't like it. Anyway, that was a tangent. What did Professor Ryan say?"

"That I should transfer to Ilvermorny – they have a wider Alchemy and Runes program, so she said I could do a Mastery in Runes there." Francesca sighed deeply, looking down at the study table – clean, white and minimalist, like so much of the Pettingill Hall furniture. Even her chair was powder blue.

"Okay." Archie nodded. "But you don't want to because…?"

"New school, new people – I just won't fit in. Here, at AIM, I have John. I have you and Hermione, and I have the Duelling Club. There – If I go to Ilvermorny, everyone will already have their established friend groups, I don't want to just come in and – I don't like meeting new people. And I don't really want to do a Mastery in Runes – there aren't _any_ schools that do work on the interface of No-Maj engineering and magic. I just want to focus on the ACD, and I can only do that with Blake & Associates." Francesca rubbed at her eyes again, wishing that she did have some tea. Even bad Seaton House tea.

"Go on." Archie reached over, resting a hand on her arm, warm.

"I asked Professor Ryan if maybe – since the ACD is in development, if we could treat that like a thesis project supervised by the Masters at Blake & Associates, if that could be taken instead of coursework for my last two years here. She said the admin would consider it, but I mean – Wizarding Britain is at war. And it would mean working really closely with Aldon, like in Britain, and John would _blow up_ if I mentioned it. And Fals wouldn't like it, either."

"Okay," Archie repeated slowly, tapping one finger, and Francesca realized she had just dumped a lot of information on him and he was still untangling her words. "All right. Okay. The first part, well, I can tell you that people aren't that bad and I'm sure you'll make new friends wherever you go, but I know that's not really reassuring. And that doesn't matter if you don't want to study there anyway. Let's talk about Britain, then. I mean, I can't say it wouldn't be dangerous – it feels like people are disappearing every few days, and not only in Wizarding world – but I'd be a hypocrite to try to stop you, you know? If an independent study project is you decide you want to do and it's approved, you're welcome to stay at Grimmauld Place. It's a noble manor, it has more protections on it than most other places, and it's in the middle of No-Maj London. It'll keep Dad from turning into a mushroom. But you said something about working with Aldon, and upsetting John and Faleron, and that seems more important to you than the war. Do you… want to talk more about that?"

Francesca blinked – she hadn't even realized what she had said, but now that Archie pointed it out, it seemed obvious. The war was one thing, but she hadn't thought much about it other than how it would affect ACD development. War seemed like a foreign concept; she was newblood, but she was also American, and she preferred many No-Maj things over their magical counterparts. Even having spent both the summer and winter holidays in Britain, she had never wandered far into magical Britain, not on her own, not to explore. She preferred the No-Maj world, and No-Maj England was stable, and she struggled to reconcile the two. Even when she went to the Ministry Ball, the ongoing war hadn't really occurred to her, and both her thoughts at the time and her memories focused on Aldon more than anything else.

"I—" she started, and she paused, trying to think through what she wanted to say. "Well, there was the holiday. That was – it was – I don't even know how to put it. I trusted him, Archie, and he betrayed me. He tried to _trick_ me into marrying him, and I haven't forgotten that. But when we're working together, it's – it's different. He understands the ACD, and even John doesn't really understand the ACD, let alone Fals. I—"

She stopped again, looking down at the table. Archie waited, and her breath was barely above a whisper. "I miss him. I miss talking about the ACD with him – not just in formal business meetings, but just for fun. He – he _knows _magical theory, and runes, and he knows what I dream about making with the ACD. But I can't – I can't go back to that, because, you know, I told him no. Before he did it, I said it was too early. I told him it was too early to meet my parents, I laughed at his joke about marriage. Except it wasn't a joke, Archie."

Archie nodded, his steel grey eyes were thoughtful. "Okay. What about John? You said that John would _blow up_ if you mentioned going to Britain, what's that about?"

Francesca made a face, her nose wrinkling. "With John, it's really more about Aldon than war. He hasn't forgiven Aldon for the holiday stunt, and I'm not sure he ever will. And that's – he's right, Archie. John is right. Aldon didn't just cross my boundaries – he ignored everything I said that didn't match with what he wanted to hear, and he _blew up _my boundaries. I _shouldn't_ miss him. I _shouldn't_ want to talk to him the way we used to, before he did what he did. But I do."

"Okay." Archie rested his chin in one palm, frowning a little, and his voice was a little quieter. "And what about Faleron?"

There wasn't a hint of judgement when he asked, it was just a question.

"I like Fals," Francesca said immediately, with a small shrug of discomfort. "He's kind and generous – he always has time to help someone with their homework, or to tutor them in duelling, and he's responsible and steady. He's loyal, and he's close to his family."

"But?"

"He just doesn't really understand the ACD." Francesca paused, then she sighed again, feeling somewhat guilty. "I mean – that shouldn't matter. That doesn't matter. He supports me in it, he just doesn't understand – he doesn't have the magical theory or runes or science background. I don't – well, he doesn't understand what it means to me, either. If – if I choose to go to a warzone for ACD development over transferring to another school in America, he'd be really upset, and I don't really know how we can get past that. But it's not like he would be at AIM next year either, he's graduating and going to law school – we'd never see each other anyway."

Archie nodded, sombre. "That's hard. I don't really know what to tell you, other than to say that if it's meant to be, it'll work out. All right. Let's get back to the important thing: you want to go back to Britain to work on the ACD if AIM will accept it as meeting the qualifications for your last two years of magical study. Can I tell you what I think, Chess? A bit of a different perspective?"

"I guess so." Francesca looked up from her desk, smiling a little

"I think you should ignore John and Faleron on this – it's your ACD, and even if I don't understand it, I know it's important to you. You're the one who gets to decide what risks you're willing to take for it, and if that means going back to Britain, then we'll work it out. As for Aldon…" Archie looked up, pausing, sorting through his words. "Look, I didn't grow up in quite the same environment as he did, but Dad did. Aldon is – he was raised as a very proper noble pureblood Heir, and a lot of what he does needs to be read in that light. The ritual he used was a very old one, but it's very romantic, the kind of thing that gets sung about in legend. Wizarding knights used to swear something like it for their ladies, before they went to war, and a response was only expected if they returned. For Aldon to pull that out, he really… Well."

Archie voice trailed off, then he leaned forwards again, looking Francesca in the eyes. "That ritual, as a magical rite, supersedes the Marriage Law. And Aldon hasn't been raised the way we were, to date around a little before we settle down. Nobles generally have arranged marriages, often very young, and for him, the fact that he proposed and the fact that he used _that_ rite to do it – in his mind, and based on how he was raised, it was _very_ romantic. I'm not saying you should forgive him, that's entirely up to you, but you shouldn't feel like you need to hold yourself back from forgiving him, either."

"And my boundaries?"

Archie shrugged a little. "Don't worry about that too much. I've told him you've moved on, so he'll keep his hands and lips and vows to himself. You don't need to forgive him if you don't feel like you should, but I don't think he should be keeping you from doing what you want to do if you want to do it anymore than John or Faleron. He's just another one of your colleagues, now."

Francesca nodded, sighing, and reached for her bag. She felt John heading in the direction of Pettingill Hall. "I think Duelling is almost done. I'm going to go meet Fals. I'll – thanks for talking with me, Arch. I appreciate it."

"Anytime." Archie grinned, boyish. "Just returning the favour from second year."

Francesca laughed, remembering that awkward conversation about the Holocaust in second year. Archie had looked so confused and lost then, far from the confident young man she now saw in front of her. She nodded in thanks again, before disappearing out in the late afternoon sunshine.

The next morning, at the end of the communication orb meeting with Blake & Associates, she asked Christie if they could talk later, privately.

"By communication orb?" Christie asked, a little surprised. "Or by telephone? Cross-Atlantic telephone calls are expensive, and you'd need to get into town to do it…"

Francesca hesitated. She _would_ prefer a telephone call, which was more private, but if her plan succeeded, it wouldn't be a secret. Aldon would find out anyway, and it was still a professional issue. She could ask Fals to drive her to town right after classes today, but it wouldn't be very convenient for either of them. She could wait for a weekend, but she wanted to get the ball rolling now.

"Comm orb will be fine," she said eventually. "Erm, at nine your time?"

"That works perfectly, Francesca. I'll talk to you then."

Later that afternoon, Francesca spilled out the story and her proposal. She had been plotting out what pieces could be potentially publishable, without risking anyone scooping the ACD. The piece about the blocking potion and aerogels could go into a Potions journal, and she could second-author a paper on the advancements of proto-runic syllabary with Aldon for other spells and ward use in a Runes journal. She could even write a preliminary paper on magical frequency, especially as it related to wand use, with a comparison to electromagnetic frequencies. There were a dozen small papers or pieces she could publish, and without mentioning resonance or diving into No-Maj electrical engineering or materials engineering, the ACD would still be protected. Especially if they published in very different journals – with the silos around each magical academic discipline, it would all likely fly under other academics' noses. A Runes Master reading their paper on proto-runic syllabary was unlikely to also read a Potions paper on the blocking potion and aerogels, or a Magical Theory paper on magical frequency, and almost certainly wouldn't have the No-Maj science or engineering knowledge to put the ACD together.

She had planned it out, and she only needed three to five Masters at Blake & Associates to oversee her so she could graduate from AIM. And she could work at Blake & Associates full-time, with everyone else.

There was a pause on the other end of the comm orb, and Francesca waited, breath bated, for the response.

"I have no problems with this," Christie said slowly. "If that is what you want to do, Francesca, we would love to have you with us. I can supervise - I have a Mastery in Alchemy, and I am sure Albert would be delighted to as well. I'll ask Jessica if she'll act as a third committee member, but it's unfortunate we don't have a formal Runes Master or Master of Magical Theory on staff, since they would be the closest to the ACD project and its strengths. I can gather our CVs here and prepare a joint letter of endorsement for AIM."

"And I can certainly write a paper with you on proto-runic syllabary," Aldon added, with a note of humour. "We could do multiple papers: one adapting the proto-runes concept for different spells, then another for the wards. Though, without the context of the ACD, I fully expect that these papers, if published, will go completely unnoticed but for a few people mocking us for even looking at it."

"Why do you say that, Aldon? And why do you sound so amused?" Francesca frowned at her communication orb, her breath only coming a little short as she addressed him directly, as she hadn't for months.

"Well, when we drop the ACD on their blinkered heads, they'll curse themselves over it," Aldon replied, and Francesca could picture the smirk on his face. "And that will be very funny. Do you know yet where you will be staying, if approved? I will want to look at their wards. We _are_ at war."

Francesca hesitated, but didn't see any harm in replying. It wasn't as if she would be staying anywhere different, most likely. "Um, probably Grimmauld Place, Archie said I could move in. If Sirius says no, though, I can, um, probably move into Queenscove with Neal. He's basically my brother-in-law's brother, so, um, Tina can bully him into it."

"That sounds … appropriate." Aldon's voice was slow, measured. "I enjoyed speaking tonight, Francesca. I … hope to see you here in Britain soon."

Francesca paused, looking down at the orb, feeling her chest hurt with old betrayal and new uncertainty.

She ignored it. "If you could gather the CVs and provide a letter of endorsement, Christie, I can – I will draft the education plan and submit it to AIM. With luck, they should accept it, and we can, um, go from there. I have to get going to practice, so, um, thank you. Have a good evening."

She let go of the comm orb, but comm orbs weren't like phones. She couldn't unilaterally cut the connection – she could only choose to _not respond. _So, she still heard both Aldon and Christie wish her a good practice, even as she dropped the orb on her dresser, and she heard Aldon's quiet whisper, a few minutes later, as she changed out of her uniform into her practice clothes and grabbed her bag.

"Francesca – I really wish you would talk to me. I miss you, and I miss talking to you, about anything and everything. Please just … give me a chance. Let me apologize. Just talk to me."

Francesca walked out the door.

XXX

Aldon stared down at his orb. He knew that Francesca had probably heard him – it had only taken him a minute or so to excuse himself to his bedroom, and she couldn't have gone that quickly. But, as always, she hadn't responded. His orb still glowed, pale green, but there was no sign she had heard, nor did she acknowledge his comment at all.

He sighed and fought the urge to throw the orb against the wall. First, that would be an incredibly immature reaction, and second, they needed the orb for work. No one would appreciate it if he wrecked the easiest and fastest way to contact Francesca from Britain in what amounted to an eighteen – almost nineteen – year old's temper tantrum.

Instead, he set the orb down gently on his side table, near his window, the dip in his pillow where it had previously resided long gone. Perhaps once Francesca returned to Britain, preferably permanently, he would find a time to talk to her, grovel some apologies, and persuade her to forgive him. Somehow.

Archie said she was seeing someone. Aldon didn't know whether he was lying or not, and his gift most regrettably didn't work across email. He couldn't even ask Francesca whether it was true, because it wasn't the sort of thing he could ask in a business meeting and she wasn't responding to him otherwise. It was possible that Archie had only told him so in an effort to encourage him to _move on_, as the boy would put it, but he worried that it _was_ true. That thought, more than anything else, drove him out with Alex more than strictly necessary.

Alex worked him past the point of thinking. Aldon still hated running, but the jog to the Leaky Cauldron, only a few kilometres, didn't seem as daunting now as it did only twelve weeks ago. Alex sometimes made them run more laps across Queenscove, where the hilly terrain set his thighs on fire and his lungs gasping for air, and only after that and what Alex called a "minor strength regimen", was Aldon allowed to play with his guns.

Aldon liked target practice. The feeling of the weapon in his hands, heavy and serious, matched the atmosphere now permeating his life. Francesca would not talk to him, he was perpetually tired, and around him everything seemed to be turning darker, but he didn't seem to be able to do much about it. Aldon heard things; Aldon heard the plans of Voldemort, strikes before they happened, from Lestrange, and he heard the plans of the Ministry, what arrest warrants had been signed, from both the Shifter Alliance and the Clans. But all he could do was send word to his allies, passing names and dates and information through Toby and Quinn, or Hannah, or Cedric. If it was any of theirs, they would pull them out of the way before anything happened; if they weren't, Aldon would hear about the strike or the arrest from another source. And he only heard a small number of the attacks that were planned, and never in enough time to publish in _Bridge _– for attacks, he was lucky if he got a day, let alone a week. People were disappearing, plucked off the streets or from their own homes, and it seemed like there was news of another one every week or so. The Muggles, too, were reporting a _crime wave_, an increase in violence, which Aldon fully attributed to Voldemort.

The Ministry and Voldemort were just two sides of the same Galleon, from his perspective. They were both attacking and arresting people who had nothing to do with the laws that were passed, fighting over the societal ideals that most witches and wizards had had no hand in crafting. If Aldon were on top of that little world, perhaps he wouldn't care, but he wasn't.

Aldon Blake was a halfblood bastard, and with the exception of being able to access a few particular, ancient, magical rituals, he was no better off than any other non-noble, and quite a lot worse off than non-noble purebloods. In this, he stood with most of Wizarding Britain – caught in the middle, between two warring factions.

Aldon heard the worries at work – his mother was often tense, on edge, and Aldon had reworked the penthouse wards yet again, spending his excess nervous energy building ever more creative defensive spells into her wards. Albert had asked Aldon to take a look at his family wards, at their home in Manchester, and Aldon had only been too happy to comply and built him as close to a top-tier security ward as he could dream. Both Aman and Ryu had sent their families abroad, while they remained behind. Aldon suspected that Aman, as their resident Defense Mistress, felt an obligation to stay behind, but he wondered how long Ryu could be expected to remain. Their new Potions Mistress, Jessica Wilson, had immigrated from Australia entirely through Muggle means with her husband, a Muggle biochemistry professor, and had carefully not announced her presence in Wizarding Britain to the Ministry. Blake & Associates hadn't lost anyone yet, but Aldon wondered how soon that would last.

Shooting things felt good. He liked the satisfying kick of the gun as he fired his weapon, he liked the calm breathing exercises involved in sniping. He liked the feeling that, for his best shots, the kick of the gun was a surprise even to himself, and he liked examining the target and seeing all of his shots neatly clustered in the centre around the figure's chest. While Aldon took a position on Neal's battlements, shooting targets ever farther away on his ravelins or on the coast, Neal and Alex battled with their swords in the lists. Better Neal than him, he thought, because even equipped with his handgun and wand, in short-range combat, Alex put him in the dirt daily.

"Move your feet," Alex had snapped at him, after the first 2 weeks. "With a wand and gun, you should aim to keep your distance, while with a sword, I aim to stab you. _Run_, you idiot, and take your shots when you're safe!"

Aldon ran. He ran, and he fired paint pellets at his friend. He never hit Alex, but the movement, running, action made him stop thinking, stop spinning his mind in endless, exhausting circles, stop lying awake at night with an active brain, wondering what came next. With a few hours of training in the morning, work all day and then an evening processing information coming in from various sources, he fell into bed every night near midnight and slept through until when Alex invaded his bedroom at six in the morning to drag him out for more training. Weekends were just as bad – Alex worked him twice as long on weekends, Neal joining in.

He took his time, breathing slowly as he stared through his sight, spotting the black cut-out targets that Neal had set up for him across the ravelins, on a few outcrops on the sea approach. He could hear the distant sound of Neal yelling at Alex as he breathed, in and out, staring at the target. He watched the target bob, up and down, with his breathing, and his finger on the trigger was heavy.

The shot went off. The figure disappeared, and Aldon knew that he had hit it. He discharged the empty casing from the chamber and heard something new from the direction of the main hall – not Neal yelling, not Alex's occasional biting tone. It wasn't the Lady Queenscove, either, who was away teaching Mandarin in Muggle Edinburgh.

He stood up, walking across the battlements to look down. It was the Lord Black, holding something up in the air. Aldon couldn't make out what he was saying, but his tone was excited. He paused, watching as Neal walked over a minute later, Alex joining him. He tilted his head curiously, and Neal looked up, waving him down.

Aldon glanced over at his rifle set-up, but he could always come back to target practice later. He contemplated just leaving it, but Alex had drilled taking care of his equipment into him, so he reluctantly broke his rifle down and packed it away before taking the long stairs down to the grounds and joining the others in front of the wide doors to the Great Hall.

"What is it?" he asked, glancing over at the Lord Black and the object that he was showing in his hands. "An imaging orb? They're rare, in Wizarding Britain."

"Archie just sent it to me from AIM!" The Lord Black crowed in delight, brandishing the smoky grey orb. "He said he wanted to show me his school and, since I can't go to AIM myself. He mentioned that Neal would know how to trigger it to play."

"Sure," Neal said agreeably, glancing at Alex. "It's Saturday, Alex – we can take a break and get back to it later."

"Or, you're exhausted," Alex quipped, though he didn't seem to have any complaints.

Neal sighed, and Aldon half-smiled as he saw that Neal did in fact look quite sweaty and tired, while Alex looked the same as ever. But Alex never seemed to show the effects of training, not like Aldon or Neal, so Aldon would have been surprised if that were not the case.

"Upstairs parlour is best for this, I think – I'll join you there, I'm going to run for a quick shower. The castle will show you the way, Sirius."

A shower did sound like a good idea, because as much as Aldon tolerated exercise, he still didn't enjoy the sweat of physical activity. He was the second one into the upstairs parlour, choosing a seat across from the Lord Black with a nod of acknowledgement. He couldn't help but be curious about AIM – it wasn't just where Archie went, but Francesca as well, and he wanted to be able to picture the things that she had talked about last term. Neal, as last in the room, accepted the orb from the Lord Black, set it on the table, and traced a symbol on it with his wand.

The picture unfolded on the low-lying table in front of them, just as Chang's had in the Triwizard Tournament – the Tournament had only been a year ago, Aldon realized with some surprise, but it felt much longer.

"Hi, Dad!" Archie popped up in the image, with a wide and excited grin. "I hope you got the orb working, because Hermione and I have gotten one and I'm making a _home video_ for you!"

"Archie, if he's watching, then he will have figured out how to play the orb." Hermione's voice was dry, but amused.

Archie laughed, and Aldon tuned him out in favour of looking behind him, to his surroundings. They were in an enormous, sun-filled room, decorated white and powder blue. A mix of tables were on one side of the room, while the other, under a grand wall of glass, held numerous puffy armchairs and sofas. Above the common room were balconies on balconies, each one lined with doors, presumably bedrooms. They were in the Healer dormitories, apparently, Pettingill Hall. Aldon glanced over at Neal as Archie took them around, chattering commentary to his father the entire time – Neal was smiling, a mildly nostalgic look on his face.

"They were my old dorms, too," he explained, catching Aldon's eye. "Home for seven years."

From the Healer's dorms, Archie took them out on a grand tour of the grounds. AIM seemed much more open than Hogwarts had been, though Aldon had always guessed that was the case by the various building names that Francesca, Archie and Hermione habitually threw out without thought. Archie didn't take them inside the other dorms, Oliver Hall, the sprawling mansion that housed a third of all AIM students, including Francesca, or into the Mastery townhouse complex, painted rainbow colours and numbered, rather only pointing out that they were there. He walked across campus to Seaton House, the student community centre, showing the dining hall, the auditorium where Francesca was practicing, giving a distracted wave to her friends when she saw them, showing the mess of club rooms and study rooms and the great library.

"Pettingill Hall has its own Healing-focused library, and the Mastery townhouses all have specialized libraries too, but this is the main one," Archie explained, pointing things out while other students glared at him over their books. "Sorry, sorry! Making a video for my dad!"

"You can do that _outside_, and not where people are working," another voice drawled, annoyed, and the image cut shakily back to the outdoors.

Archie led them over to Thompson Hall, the teaching building, and showed them a few classrooms – the No-Maj Studies classroom, his Healing classrooms. Classrooms everywhere were more or less the same, Aldon would have thought, but instead of blackboards, AIM was equipped with whiteboards, covered in blue ink.

Inside the stadium, Archie showed them part of a pickup Quodpot game, where Kowalski was playing what Archie called a centre position. Forwards were the aggressive ones, meant to score points, and came in either blocking or sprinting varieties; centres were expected to be versatile, filling whatever gaps had been left when the Quods exploded and eliminated players. Defense players were all huge, broad, meant to block sprinters from scoring or to engage other blockers. As Aldon watched, another Quod exploded in air, sending the girl who had been holding it spiralling in the air as the other players laughed.

"And that's AIM – or at least the main parts of AIM." Archie grinned, delighted, and Aldon glanced over at the Lord Black to see that the man was completely enraptured by his son moving across the broad table, showing all the things that he loved. "I want to save some space on this recording orb some special things, so I'll stop recording now. Not Quidditch, AIM Quidditch is still awful, but other things!"

"You do realize that when he watches this, it's just going to cut to the next thing you want to show, right?" Hermione asked, coming around to the front of the orb for the first time, weirdly huge in the frame, an exasperated look on her face. "This is all going to sound very odd to Sirius when he watches it."

"It's only my first movie, 'Mione, cut me a break!" Archie winked, slinging an arm over the girl's shoulders. "The first of _many_ movies, I promise."

"I hope not," Hermione muttered, but from the expression on her face, Aldon could see that she didn't mean it.

The next frame opened at a different school, one that Aldon could see instantly was built much more like Hogwarts: a tall, imposing castle on a mountain. It seemed bigger, however, with more wings and galleries, and the orb panned to show the valleys below.

"Welcome to Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" Archie's voice was bright, chipper, as he appeared in the image. "I can't actually show you much of the school itself, Dad, since I don't go here, but it's the oldest school in Wizarding America and has a _thousand _students. Can you imagine? Even AIM only has about six hundred or so, and Ilvermorny has almost _twice_ as many!"

Aldon couldn't imagine it – Hogwarts had had only about three hundred students which, he supposed, explained why he had always been impressed with the course offerings and extra-curricular activities that Francesca had mentioned. He wondered just how big their classes were, then he remembered Francesca mentioning that there were many teachers for most areas including _eight_ different Charms Masters. Unlike at Hogwarts, there was no guarantee that a class would have the same professor for a subject across multiple years, and it was more common to have classes with different Masters in different years. It all sounded horrendously complicated, sorting out different student schedules.

"Anyway," Archie said, leading the recording back into the maze of hallways that didn't seem very different from Hogwarts, "we're here for Chess' dance competition! We get to go to other schools in the North American League for games and events and so on, we all have Portkey Hubs, and I thought it would be fun to show you Ilvermorny since I had the chance. And we're here to cheer Chess on, too – I'm going to turn this off until right before she comes on, but her performance this year is going to be _great."_

"I wish you planned what you were going to say before you turned the recording on," Hermione's voice came through, a little exasperated. "It's just going to _cut to the next thing_, you don't have to explain it, Archie."

They were suddenly in a huge, cavernous hall, seated on high bleachers above the ground, music blasting. Archie came into the image, grinning and pointing, and the image swung to the ground, where it seemed like a hundred people were milling about, half of them in outlandish costumes. Aldon picked out Francesca after a moment, dressed in a short, black, form-fitting dress that left little to his imagination, her hair carefully dolled up into a curly black tail, her makeup heavy and aging her by at least five years.

He swallowed. She wasn't wearing most revealing clothing of everyone on the floor, but it wasn't by much. He stared at her for a long moment, barely breathing as he ran his eyes over her delicate curves, fighting the urge to interrupt the image – to block it so the others couldn't see, or to freeze it to stare more, he wasn't sure.

She was standing beside a tall, darker-skinned boy wearing similarly tight clothing. Her eyes were tracked towards a long table, where people were deliberating, and numbers were being fired into the air – scores for the previous performers, Aldon guessed, based on what Francesca had told him about magical dance. A technical score, and an artistic score, and they would add to determine the winners. The last pair scored sixty-one, and Francesca shook her head, murmuring something to the boy standing beside her, who was stretching his arms. The boy shrugged a little, saying something, and Francesca nodded.

There was a breath, where she shut her eyes and seemed to settle deeper into herself, and then they linked their hands and ran out onto the floor. Aldon's face darkened, and he privately thought Francesca and the boy looked ridiculous because he was a clear foot taller than her. She was smiling, taking their first position, but he wasn't, instead looking down at her with an intensity that made Aldon grit his teeth. When the music started, a beautiful violin and piano arrangement that Aldon had never heard before, they opened with a spin into classic waltz.

At first, Aldon thought that the dance was similar to what he and Francesca had done at the Unity Ball, but he was forced very quickly to revise his opinion. They remained in the waltz for only a few seconds before they took to the air, Francesca inviting the boy up with her with a charming, teasing smile, both of them practically skipping as they rose, twenty feet above the crowds, before the boy caught her and lifted her above his head in pose.

Francesca's feet didn't touch the ground for half of performance, not even the makeshift "ground" created by the air-hardening runes. There were more lifts, each one making Aldon scowl deeper at the placement of the boy's hands on her body, and a dangerous looking swing where she sailed between the boy's legs, relying on his strength to send her soaring back up in a new series of acrobatics. What they were doing made what he and Francesca did at the Ministry Unity Ball look like nothing at all, an afternoon of leisure, if this was true skill. Stars flickered above them, illusion magic painting romantic nights as they danced, as they wove love set to music.

Another turn, another throw, and new illusion magic swirled around them, not just Francesca's trademark lightning but fire spells as well. Aldon saw echoes of his own performance with Francesca, but it was as if what he had danced with her over the holidays was a pale copy of what she did now. He didn't have the skill of this dancer, and the fact that Francesca clearly wasn't the only one managing the illusions meant that the images were more complex, more layered, more beautiful. Fire and lightning played around them, and the routine fell into discord – expressions of love and admiration turned dark, as they fell away from each other. It was an inversion of what Aldon had played with her – she wasn't dancing a love story, but a tragedy.

It's just a performance, he reminded himself sharply. From everything Francesca had said about dance before the holidays, she hadn't cared for pairs performance and she had barely mentioned her partner. Partners in dance weren't always romantic, and certainly there had been nothing romantic when the two of them had practiced. She likely had to play at those expressions, at that heartbreak, for artistry points. And they _were_ dancing heartbreak, now – they had fallen apart, each moving separately, and the final fall, for them both, was broken. Francesca's eyes were shut, and even from the angle of the recording orb, Aldon could see that she was exhausted.

It was only a few minutes long, and the crowds in the recording orb were cheering, a strange sound exploding from the picture. Francesca got to her feet, her eyes sweeping the audience for her friends, and for a moment it seemed like she was looking directly at Aldon. She smiled, a tired but genuine smile, waving a little as her dance partner went to her. They hugged, a friendly and somehow perfunctory embrace, before going to the side to await their score.

"The highest score on the board right now for pairs is that sixty-one – the top Cascadia pair," Archie said, and Aldon jumped a little to hear him. He had forgotten that this was Archie's recording for the Lord Black. "I think we have it though, come on, come on, at least a sixty-two…"

Below, one of the judges stood up and fired a sixty-five in the air, and Archie whooped. Aldon knew it was a good score, not least because Francesca's face had lit up in joy, the boy beside her slapping her on the back as she laughed, a bright sound that he couldn't hear over the overwhelming chatter and cheering from Archie's section of the stands.

"Wow," the Lord Black said, leaning forward as Archie came back into view, chattering something or other about Ilvermorny, or magical dance, or Aldon didn't know.

He had stopped listening. His eyes were captured by something happening behind Archie, down on the floor below.

Francesca was talking to someone else, someone _not_ her dance partner, someone who was handing her a small bouquet of roses. There had to be at least half a dozen of them, bright blooms against her dark dress, and she reached for him in a hug much warmer than the one she had just given her dance partner.

It was hug that came paired with a kiss, and not a light one on his cheek.

Aldon stood up, his legs feeling weak despite the fact that he had been sitting for the better part of an hour. Maybe more than an hour. He couldn't watch this anymore. His fingers itched. He had to do something, and the air in the room was thick, heavy as he blundered out.

It was only a few minutes for him to retrieve his sniper rifle, and he set up his position on Neal's inner battlements, slamming parts of his rifle into place with rather more force than necessary. He lined up his first shot, a dark figure behind Neal's second ravelin, waiting for calm.

His breathing was ragged, his sight bobbing up and down more than usual, and he struggled to pull himself together. He wouldn't hit the target if he was like this. He wanted to hit the target, he wanted the focus and calm that sniping always brought him.

He didn't want to think.

His first shot missed. So did his second. And his third, and he gave up, sitting down against the wall, wiping his eyes, swallowing.

What did this other boy have that he didn't? It couldn't be a manor or title, because Wizarding America didn't have such things. He didn't know about money, but it couldn't be power or status because in Wizarding America, these things were earned, and—

And Francesca had never cared about such things anyway, he realized with a belated jolt. She hadn't cared when it came to him, and she wouldn't have cared with this other boy. If she had cared about those things, Aldon wouldn't have fallen in love with her.

He sat there, leaning against the wall, looking up at the sky. It was the end of April, and the skies were bright blue, with barely a cloud in sight. It was a nice day, if a little cold, but Aldon could only see that the skies were vast and empty. He felt very small, staring up at the sky, a miniscule speck against Neal's massive, stone fortress.

He shouldn't have fucked up so badly. That was the answer – he had had his chance, and it had taken him all of half an hour to fuck it up. He should have listened to her. He should have read the stupid book that Hermione had given him, he should have talked to Neal or even Archie about how courting worked in America before he pressed his suit. He should have thought, he should have waited, but instead he had been caught up in the moment, ignoring the things she had said and assuming she was teasing him, seeing only the opportunity the duel had given him. He had fucked up, and he didn't know what to do about it, and perhaps there was nothing that could be done about it.

Perhaps this wasn't something that he could _fix_.

Aldon had always had the answers. Even in the days when he was frozen, stiff and lifeless in his own fear, he had felt like he had the answers, and he had never felt as lost as he did now. When he decided to throw away his fear, coming forward to talk to Archie about revolution, he had been excited – everything had been planned, the risks carefully examined, a decision made. When those plans went awry, like when Aldon had been revealed as a halfblood, Aldon had shifted, adapting, changing in response, and he moved forward, forcing himself forwards, always forwards. He had plans upon plans upon plans: plans to take down a government, plans to fight a war, plans for a new world.

He didn't know how to plan for this. He didn't know how to win Francesca back – or even if it was possible.

"Hey." Neal's voice floated in the air beside him. "Hey, you all right?"

Aldon didn't see the point in lying. "No."

He felt Neal sit down beside him, the warmth of another body difficult to miss. "In case you were wondering, that's Faleron King. He's a friend of mine, and we were in Duelling Club together. Top eight on the circuit. He's been in love with Francesca for years, asked her out at least a dozen times. She always turned him down before."

"I didn't ask." Aldon shifted, turning away from Neal, looking down the long, almost winding line of Neal's inner walls. "We're not – I wish – I don't know."

"At a loss for words, are you?"

"Why are you out here?" Aldon snapped, turning back at him. Neal looked comfortable, leaning against the stone, and his expression was more sympathetic than Aldon might have thought it would be. "To mock me?"

"Hardly," Neal said, his voice mild, and his emerald green eyes were kind. "If you want my take, Faleron probably started as a rebound for Francesca. If she wanted to date him, she had two years to accept, and she never did. Something changed, and you were probably it."

"What does that matter?" Aldon leaned his head back against the wall, looking back up at the wide, soulless sky. "He's still with her – he can be beside her, every day. I can't – how do I measure up to that?"

"You don't," Neal's voice was matter of fact, if a little sad. "I mean, I haven't been talking with her, but if it's any comfort, she saw something in you that she didn't see in anyone else. I'm not saying that you have a chance or anything – even if it started as a rebound, Faleron is a good guy, and maybe he won her over. But it's not like it is in the world you grew up in, you know? It's only been a few months."

"A few _months_," Aldon repeated, scathing.

Neal had a ghost of a smile on his face. "A long time for you to be dating, I suppose. But my brother Will and Tina just got engaged over Christmas, and they've been together some five years, you know."

There was a moment of silence. Aldon fixed his eyes on the stone across from him, the guard against falling into Neal's inner courtyard, remembering suddenly that Francesca wanted to return to Britain. Not just for the summer, but for the next two years. She wasn't going to stay in America for this man. Instead, she was coming back to Britain.

But that didn't mean she was coming back for him, and Aldon knew with a cold clarity she wasn't. She was coming back for the ACD, because for her, the ACD was everything. One couldn't understand Francesca without the ACD, he thought, and that was the one thing that he had that he thought no one else did. He knew the ACD, and knowing the ACD was like knowing Francesca herself.

"I don't know why I'm out here, actually," Neal confessed, sounding more than a little sheepish. "I mean – I saw you were hurting, so I came out here, but I don't actually have anything that helpful to say. Sorry. I probably mucked it all up anyway."

"Francesca isn't returning to AIM next year," Aldon said, starting to feel something like himself, some warmth, come back into his cold body. He still didn't know what he was going to do – he didn't know if there was anything he could do – but sitting on the top of a bloody wall moping was not useful in the least. "AIM doesn't have enough upper-level classes for her. She asked Blake & Associates to supervise her last two years as an independent study project to give her enough classes to graduate. I'm writing at least three papers with her."

Neal blinked, cat-like eyes surprised, glancing at him. "I see. Is that … safe? With the war?"

"No," Aldon replied, shifting his shoulders to settle himself a little more fully. The sky was vast, empty and cold, but the sun was warm. "But she'll be living with the Lord Black, or if that doesn't work out, she said she would stay with you. Something about how the elder Kowalski could bully you into it."

Neal laughed. "Tina would send Will to pull older brother privilege on me," he commented, smiling. "But I've been beating up Will since I was thirteen, so that wouldn't work. Really, though, I would let her move in just because if I didn't and something happened, I would never hear the end of it."

"She would be safer at Queenscove than at Grimmauld Place, I think. Perhaps you should offer." Aldon half-smiled, and they lapsed into silence again, this one somehow more companionable than the last.

Aldon didn't know what came next. He didn't know how she would be when she came back, or what they could be, but he could figure it out later. If she was still with this other person, this _Faleron King_, then he would have to decide what to do then – _not _duel him over it, he told himself sternly, because he couldn't think of anything more likely to drive Francesca even farther away from him than duelling someone she liked. He would have to wait and see.

And if he did have a chance, if somehow this Faleron King stayed behind in America, a decision that Aldon would forever fault him for if he did, then he would see then, too. It wouldn't be easy; perhaps it would be different, day by day, and perhaps every day would be a matter of re-earning her trust, and perhaps at the end he still might not win her over. He would try anyway, given the chance.

He hoped desperately that he would have another chance – if he had another chance, just one more chance, he wouldn't fuck it up. He would spend every damn day earning himself that chance, showing her why he deserved it, and he wouldn't take her for granted just because she had kissed him a few times. He would never take her for granted, not after this.

"Hey, Aldon." Neal sucked in a breath, sounding more serious. "Your oath. She doesn't know about it, does she?"

"No."

"What are you planning on doing about that?" Neal's voice was low, as if he didn't want to be overheard, not that Aldon thought that anyone would be overhearing them on the top of the inner walls.

Aldon shrugged, a little uncomfortable. "It will keep her safer while she's here, since the oath-bond will draw me to her and force me and my magic to her defense if she is in danger. But…" He hesitated. "It can be broken. She would only have to release me from the vow, but it would be easily done. I… don't want to tell her about it. I should."

"I see." Neal paused for a minute, seeming to think it over, and he nodded. "I guess that means once Alex goes home, I'll be responsible for keeping you in the lists."

Aldon laughed, a rusty sort of noise coming from his chest, but he let it go.

Alex went back to Serbia a week later, giving Aldon a rough one-armed hug around the shoulders as Aldon saw him off at Heathrow Aeroport, and true to his word, Neal took his place in hounding him to train. Unlike Alex, Neal didn't invade his bedroom every morning at six, but he expected Aldon to show up at Queenscove once every few days for strength training and target practice, failing which he would track him down and force him on a longer, even more hellish run across Queenscove's grounds. He also expected Aldon to run on his own, lest his stamina and endurance weaken, so Aldon had taken to skipping the Underground entirely and jogging to work, a change of clothes shrunk and tucked away in a plastic bag in his front pocket. The rush hour Underground was a nightmare anyway, and it made the weekend training days easier to bear.

With the war looming, the information coming to him grimmer by day, he hadn't much choice. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted _Francesca_ to survive, then every extra miserable hour in the lists would count.

XXX

Voldemort was an absolute fucking lunatic. He was a blood-obsessed madman who couldn't see that the world Lord Riddle had created was very much the achievable extent of what the nutcase claimed to want, and he didn't seem to realize that killing everyone who disagreed with him, however minor that disagreement, wasn't going to get him very far. At times, he wondered why his father and uncle, or Dolohov, or Travers, or Mulciber, or even McNabb didn't simply haul off and murder the seventeen-year-old psychotic wingnut. They'd be doing the world a favour if they did.

At other times, or most of the time, he knew why they didn't. Voldemort, despite his age and apparent handsomeness, exuded power. No one knew where he had studied, or if he had ever formally gone to school, but he was clearly a skilled, Lord-level, wizard. Magic reeked off him, ancient and somehow twisted and discordant, a wrong note in a sea of lesser notes, but still intoxicating. The beat of Voldemort's magic thrummed against his core when he stood too close to the man, a wild, exciting thrill that made Caelum want to vomit.

Voldemort was powerful, and all of Voldemort's followers wanted power – most of them were purebloods, but not noble, the old families that had always done things right yet had never ascended to seats in the Wizengamot or had their children marry into the elite families. Even those that weren't, like his mother, were those that had been shunted aside by the powerful, by Lord Riddle and Lord Malfoy and Lord Dumbledore, for the extremity of their views. For them, Voldemort offered power, he enjoyed their extremity, and the world would be simpler, better, and easier with him in charge.

Voldemort was so easy to understand, not like the world in which they lived. Obey, succeed, and be rewarded. Disobey and fail, and be punished. There was no in-between – there was no struggle with no result. There was no playing by the rules and still seeing shit in return.

He wished he could find the words _lunatic_, _psychopath_, _madman_, _maniac_, _nutcase_, _nutjob, wanker, headcase, crackpot, pissant, bastard _or _wingnut_ in_ One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._ And yet, having read the tome cover to cover, the most that he could come up with in a letter for Blake was that Voldemort was _unbalanced_. Or _disturbed_. Or _unstable._ None of those really portrayed what he wanted to convey, but it was an on-going effort.

Voldemort liked him, because Caelum had a lifetime of experience placating a madwoman. He knew what to think, what to say, what to do, and how to feel in order to earn a psychopath's trust. Voldemort looked at Caelum and he saw a lifetime of hate, hate covered with a thin veneer of Potions expertise. These parts of Caelum, the part where he shook and shuddered out the excess adrenaline from his body, made and drank more Draught of Peace than anyone really ought, and wrote angry, short reports to Blake on the outside, these parts were smothered beneath a lethifold of hate when he stood in the presence of Voldemort.

In front of Voldemort, he was hate, and he was control. He was Voldemort's internal enforcer – people like his mother, like Mulciber and McNabb, they were the terrorists. Voldemort trusted them to bring fear to his name, and he let them make sport of halfbloods and Muggleborns, suspected halfbloods and Muggleborns, Light faction sympathizers, and blood traitors for their amusement. But Voldemort trusted _him _to punish them when they got out of control, because Caelum would take it as far as Voldemort wanted him to, and no farther.

But there was only so far that Voldemort would trust Caelum, when he apparently owed a life debt to Blake. He got _some_ information, but not all. He could piece together more, and he overheard some of the minor attacks before they happened, but the _Daily Prophet _attack had been a lesson. He would hear the minor strikes, the ones that Voldemort didn't care about, but he wouldn't hear the major plans. Not while Blake's life debt seemed to hover above him.

He still hated Blake. But he would rather hate Blake and pass information to him than be in full servitude to an absolute madman. He had no choice in any case, now – he knew what Voldemort did to deserters. He had watched Mulciber dissect Bartimaeus Crouch with delicate precision, using magic only to keep the poor sod alive, all while the man screamed and wailed and howled in gut-wrenching shrieks. Until Mulciber cut out his vocal cords, anyway.

_Major strike planned in early June, date and location unknown, _he wrote in halting numbers, cutting as many excess words as possible. _The life debt is a concern. Further information needed, cannot obtain._

He paused, then he riffled through the pages of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi._

_You or the Ministry win, will pin all I did on you. Should you lose, will have pleasure in killing you._

He called for his youngest house-elf, the one whom he had made all the other house-elves promise to deny existed and that he had Obliviated from his parents' and his uncle's memories, and handed him the note to pass to Blake.

XXX

_AN: And so ends the second-last chapter of Vanguard, which means next chapter is in finale! Anyway, I have had a highkey awful week which partly involves almost getting booted out of my creative writing class (for giving concrit, no less, and I wish I were joking), so just letting you all know that I love you all and your comments have gotten me through a pretty rough week. Extra special thanks to meek because I work you way too hard. Next chapter will be a shorter one but - I'm getting married between now and then, so that can be forgiven, right?! _

_Next Chapter: Hate conquers all in the ashes of the fall / With our backs against the wall / With our backs against the wall / Watch the empire fall / Watch the nation dissolve / With our backs against the wall (Hate Conquers All, by Anti-Flag)_


	16. Chapter 16

Francesca needed to talk to Fals, but at the same time, she didn't want to talk to him at all. Or, more accurately, she wanted to talk to him, but not about _this_.

She had had a good semester – her last semester at AIM, just like him, not that she had told him so. She and Javier had won the magical dance competition, pairs division, and the heavy weight of the gold medal had hung in her skirt pockets for a week until she realized how silly she was being about it and carefully packed it away. She had gone to the duelling competitions, cheering her friends on, watching as Fals, John and Kel made the top four and Fals _just_ missed the podium, with John in second. She and Fals had gone to the Spring Fling together not even a week after that, where she had giggled and blushed with co-mingled embarrassment and happiness when they were crowned the Lord and Lady of Spring. They had danced through the last dance, lost in each other, and it had been about as close to perfect as she could imagine. The looming thoughts of tonight's unwilling but necessary conversation had barely been a glimmer in her mind.

It had been possible that AIM wouldn't accept her proposal. And, she had told herself over the long weeks waiting for approval, one advantage of her proposal being turned down was that she could at least stay in America – even if it meant going to a terrifying new school.

In America, she would have been closer to Fals. But Fals was graduating, going to law school in the Northeast, and she didn't kid herself. Maybe they would have _better_ chances of working out if she stayed in America, but high school relationships so rarely worked out. As wonderful as Fals was, she couldn't make her decisions based on a four-month-long high school relationship. She had to do what was best for her, and when the approval for her two-year independent study project had come through, she knew that she had to take it. This was everything she wanted for her ACD, so she had to go.

She just wanted to freeze this semester and stay here forever. She was happy, and she wanted to hold onto that feeling, guarding it against the passage of time, but even magic couldn't freeze time. Not in the way she wanted.

Her room was packed up, paper-spells shrinking her books, her clothes, a million other sundry other things into her luggage, a massive trunk that she could almost crawl into herself, and then the whole thing shrunk one more time into a small carry-on by the means of a paper charm affixed on the back. The only things left out were the things that she would pack in the morning, before she Portkeyed home to San Francisco: a blanket, a pillow, her Steiff bear, a communication orb. She would have a week at home with her parents, and her plane ticket to Heathrow International Airport was already arranged.

Everything was set. She only had one more thing to do, and that was the thing she had been dreading the whole of the exam season. She hadn't wanted to bother him when he was studying, but it was time. She couldn't put it off any longer.

Fals was in the common room, but it was too crowded in there, full of Duelling kids throwing a raucous end-of-the-year party. She felt John before she saw him, holding court with Merric, Seaver, and Esmond, soon-to-be seventh-years, Merric already jingling the keys to the old Ford that Fals had passed onto him. Kel was laughing in another circle including both Owen and Miri, while Fals seemed to be trying to decide whether or not he needed to confiscate the bottle of Jack Daniels making its way through a group of rowdy fourth-years.

She wormed her way over to him, slipping her hand into his and looking up at him with something like a smile. A few months ago, she had thought him good-looking, if not as sharply handsome as Aldon, but now she saw that he carried his own something. His chocolate-brown eyes were warm, and he always saw the bright side of things. He always had something to give, and he shared himself without restraint. She liked that about him.

He looked down at her. He must have seen something in her eyes, because the smile dropped, and his face took on a resigned cast. "Kel, can you watch that group over there for me? They have a bottle of JD."

She glanced over at him, catching the look at his face, then nodded. "Yes, I'll watch them. Go."

Francesca gripped his hand as they went outside. It was already dark, the stars speckling the night sky, and there was a warm breeze bringing with it the scent of earth, of grass and moss and green things. It was a nice night, and as they walked farther away from the student dorms, the sound of various parties and other revelry, celebrating another end of exams, the end of another year, faded away.

It was silent, and Fals led her to a small copse of trees, where she could still see the lit buildings at AIM. Seaton House was still lit, some clubs holding parties for their members there rather than in the dorms, bright squares of light shining against the otherwise dark building. Beside it, Thompson Hall was dark, shuttered for another year. Oliver Hall was alive, its many windows bright, and Pettingill Hall was even brighter, sending a soothing glow across the grounds. She could barely make out the Mastery townhouses from her angle, but she imagined they were much the same.

He sat down, offering his arms to her if she wanted to curl up in his lap, as she so often did, but she shook her head. Instead, she sat down beside him, pulling her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

They sat in a moment of silence, and Francesca knew Fals would wait for her to start.

"I'm leaving AIM," she said, abrupt, staring out across campus. "I mean – they don't have enough upper-level classes for me, so I can't come back. I could have – they offered to let me transfer to Ilvermorny, but I suggested an independent study project instead."

"The ACD." Fals' voice was barely above a whisper, and Francesca didn't look at him. "You proposed it as your project."

"Yes." Francesca paused, staring down at her knees, then she took a deep breath. "I'm moving to Britain, Fals. For the next two years, at least. My committee of instructors are there, my funding is there. And you're graduating, going to law school. So – so I think it might be best if we – if we just—"

Her voice broke a little, and she blinked quickly. Despite her efforts, a tear fell onto her knees, and she blinked again, feeling a few more tears start to slip down her cheeks. She scrubbed at her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve – she wasn't supposed to cry. She was the one doing the breaking up, so she wasn't allowed to cry. But she was, because she didn't _want_ to break up with him, not really, because even if maybe she had first accepted an invitation for a date with him on a complete whim, thinking about someone else, Fals had grown on her. He was good for her. His steadiness balanced her, smoothed out her many restless anxieties. He made her happy.

"If we didn't see each other anymore," Fals finished her sentence for her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her gently into his arms. He fished out a handkerchief out of his pocket, handing it to her, and she could hear in his voice that he wasn't all that steady either. She wiped her face, sniffling, then offered it back, but he shook his head. "I – would it make a difference if I deferred law school? What if I – what if I went with you, to Britain?"

Francesca shook her head harder, dark hair bouncing on her back, talking into his chest. "No – no! You've been planning for law school forever, how could you – how could I be worth putting that off?! I couldn't – I wouldn't ever forgive myself, if you did. You can't. You have to go to law school, and – and move on, and do what is best for you."

She felt his lips against her hair, and his arms were shaking a little around her as he held her. He was weeping too, and she didn't want to move. She shouldn't be taking this comfort from him, but she couldn't pull away.

It hurt. It hurt, and she wished she had thought to give him a chance a year or so earlier. Maybe in another world, she had accepted his first invitation on a date in her third year – maybe in that world, they would have had a better shot than they had now. Maybe in that world, they would have planned their futures together, and maybe it would have made sense for him to go with her to Britain, or maybe she would have stayed in America for him.

Those worlds weren't this one.

"Your ACD," Fals said, and his voice was thick, halting. "Make it a success, Francesca. Make it huge, bigger than anything anyone ever expected. You'll be in the papers one day, you and the ACD together, and I'll be first in line for one."

Francesca laughed, a sad, hiccoughing sort of noise into Fals' shoulder. "I will. I will, Fals. For you – find – find someone that gives you as much as you give to everyone around you, okay? I – I'm not good at giving. I'm good at – at taking from people. You're better than that, so – so find someone who gives too."

"I will." His voice was raspy, and they sat there in silence, neither of them wanting to leave. Just five more minutes, Francesca promised herself, and five minutes turned to ten, turned to fifteen and twenty and thirty, and she lost track of how many times she had told herself, just a few more minutes. They sat there, watching as the lights in Seaton House flickered off, one by one, as parties wound down and students went home, as even some of lights in Oliver Hall went out, and Pettingill Hall dimmed.

It was cold, and when Fals finally stood up, Francesca went with him, her bones creaking. She had stopped crying long before, but she felt wrung out, dry, empty, and miserable. They walked back to their dorm, side-by-side, their hands tucked in their pockets – together but apart.

The party had wound down by the time they came back, and Francesca nodded for Fals to go on first. He was the one who deserved it – he was the one who should get their friends' sympathy, to the extent possible. She waited in the stairwell, wiping her eyes every now and then, for exactly half an hour before reaching in her pocket for an Invisibility paper charm and activating it to sneak into her own bedroom.

John knew where she was anyway, but she didn't want to talk, and she locked eyes with him even under her spell to tell him so. He nodded, seemingly at random for everyone else, but Francesca understood his meaning. He would leave her alone, as she wanted, but he would be there for her if she needed him. She thanked him, mind to mind, and crept to her room.

It was past midnight her time, almost one. Almost one, and that meant it was almost six in the morning in Britain, but Francesca didn't care. Almost six in the morning was early, but it wasn't the middle of the night anymore, and she had gotten up early for team meetings for the ACD for years. And she needed to have the emptiness, the coldness of this feeling to talk to Aldon anyway – in the morning, she would lose her nerve.

She reached for her communication orb, slapping her hand on it. "Aldon. Aldon, are you awake?"

She hadn't expected him to be awake, not really, and she had expected to sit there, calling his name for several long minutes, before he responded to her. She hadn't known if he would respond to her at all tonight – maybe he would be too deeply asleep, maybe she would need to work up the nerve for this another time, maybe she might even need to arrange a time after a team meeting or wait to tell him this in person. And yet—

"Francesca." Aldon's voice came though, stiffly formal and gentle and a little uncertain, all at once, and not as groggy as Francesca would have expected. "What's wrong?"

"I broke up with Fals," she said, feeling jagged and sharp and broken, though moments later she wondered if she should have said so. It wasn't any of his business, and that wasn't why she had called, but they had carved patterns in their conversations all through first semester this year, paths into which Francesca fell all too easily. One of those paths was a certain frankness, an open honesty and trust – they shared things about themselves that they had shared with no one else, and they didn't lie to each other, or at least not much.

"Why?" Aldon's voice was calm, unruffled, and the question hung out there for Francesca to consider.

"The timing was wrong," she said, simple and succinct. "He's graduating. I'm moving to Britain. That's all."

A pause, and Francesca didn't know how to imagine the look on his face. "He's not offered to come with you to Britain?"

There was the barest hint of judgement in his voice, and Francesca couldn't help but curl up, defensive on Fals' behalf. "I told him not to. He was accepted to law school, and that's been his plan for years – I couldn't let him give up on that to follow me over a four-month long relationship."

"I … see." Francesca didn't know what to make of Aldon's tone. She didn't know if there was anything to make of it. "Are you all right, Francesca?"

"Not really." She sniffled a bit, but she didn't have any more tears to cry tonight. She had spent them all on Fals' shirt, on his sodden handkerchief that he had told her to keep. She pulled it out now, still damp, and saw in the light that they had his initials embroidered on them.

She still had his duelling jacket, too. He had gotten a new one, so he had let her keep his old one. She should send that back to him when she had a chance, but the handkerchief she would keep. She reached for her Steiff bear, awkwardly tying the handkerchief around its neck.

"He made me happy," she said, fixing the bandana to show Fals' initials. "I guess – maybe there are things more important to me than happiness. I'm stupid – I should have tried harder. But that's not why I called, Aldon."

"And why did you call, Francesca?"

"To set some ground rules." Francesca took a deep breath. "I'm not coming back to Britain for you."

"I know. You're coming back for the ACD."

"Yes." Francesca paused, searching for her words. She wasn't sure what she wanted to say beyond that, but she felt like she needed to make herself clear. "We aren't – I don't care what happened over the holidays. We aren't friends – we aren't anything. We're _nothing_, do you understand?"

There was a heavy sigh. "Yes. We should, er, talk about that, Francesca."

"No. I'm not ready to talk, Aldon." Francesca leaned back on her bed, tucking the Steiff bear under her chin. It was her last night at AIM, and she was miserable. The books were lies – she didn't see how ice cream would help her in the least right now. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hug her bear and be alone to cry with her thoughts.

There was a pause. "Then it can wait. Enjoy your week off with your family, and we'll see you on your first day here. Go sleep."

Francesca sighed, rolling over and reaching to put the orb on her beside table. "Thank you. I – I appreciate it. Have a good week, Aldon."

"You as well," he replied, and Francesca wondered if she heard the echo of something else in his voice, something bittersweet, happy and yet sad, before she drifted off.

XXX

Archie woke up early for the first Portkey out of AIM to New York City. All his things had been packed the night before, so all he had to do was grab his rolling luggage, lift it downstairs, and run for the Portkey Hub. It was not even six in the morning, but Hermione was already waiting for him in the common room, and the jog across campus was brisk.

They were unusually quiet. Everyone from Britain knew about the war, and the entire group of students waiting in New York City had their wands close to hand. No one knew what to expect, but this was a generation of newbloods and halfbloods raised to expect nothing from the Ministry, nothing from the powers that be. If there was to be an attack on Terminal M, the Ministry would not be there for them; if any of them were murdered, there would be no one seeking justice for them. They were on their own, and all of them were tetchy.

Some were staying behind. The waiting lounge at John F. Kennedy was emptier than usual, the plane when they got on only half full. The BIA had been lobbying for a shutdown of the plane home, but they hadn't had any success – Hermione had said that MACUSA and Wizarding Canada hadn't known how to house and care for more than an hundred British children for the summer if the schools were shut down. Instead, word had gone out among the students that those that could find places to stay in America for the summer should, and there would be other safety precautions instituted for those that couldn't.

Hermione had been part of the BIA team in charge of the security plan for returning home. They had, in a stroke of genius, managed to talk to someone at the Ministère des Affaires Magiques in France. There were seven French newbloods on scholarship at the Collège d'Alliance, and the French Ministry had been convinced to provide a miniscule security force to ensure the safe return of their students. It would only be about four Aurors, slipping into Wizarding Britain through No-Majs means to avoid the scrutiny of the British Ministry of Magic, but four Aurors were better than none.

Five, if he included Dad. A rampage of wild hippogriffs wouldn't keep Dad from picking him up at the aeroport, even if Archie had cautioned him against it. And Uncle Remus would be there too, and while he was not an Auror, he was an excellent dueller.

For the rest of the newbloods and halfbloods on the plane, the No-Maj world was safer than the magical one, and Hermione and the BIA had decreed as little Portkeying or Flooing as possible. Many of the students had never had Floo in their homes anyway, and most of them had arranged for No-Maj transportation home: buses and trains largely, though Saoirse, who had finally agreed to a meeting with Archie later this summer, had talked the BIA into funding No-Maj flights for the Irish and Scottish students into Dublin and Edinburgh respectively. Archie, for his part, did as much as he could, reorganizing the seating plans to push the younger students to the back of the plane so that they would exit last, making sure that those least likely to be able to protect themselves were the best protected. Throughout the flight, he moved around, checking in on everyone and making sure they all had a way to get home. He clasped hands, hugged kids who were scared, and told them that they would be as safe as he could make them, not that that was worth much. It provided them some small comfort.

Coming off the plane into Wizarding Britain was somehow anti-climactic. Dad and Remus were there to pick him up, wary eyes covering the terminal, as were the four French Aurors who quickly gathered up their charges and led them to a Portkey for Paris. Fewer parents had shown up, choosing to meet their children instead at the No-Maj train station or a café or elsewhere, and Terminal M was bizarrely empty.

Everything went off without a hitch, but Archie still felt something wrong, something ominous. The student flight from abroad, full of known British halfbloods, newbloods, and Archie himself should have been a prime target for Voldemort, but he hadn't gone for it.

Why not?

XXX

Aldon woke up, fumbling for his wand.

Something was wrong. His nerves had been on edge all day, worried that something might happen although he hadn't had anything concrete. Lestrange's last report had said that something big was planned for early June, and Aldon had thought the biggest targets would be either the Hogwarts Express or the student flight from America carrying the British Muggleborns and halfbloods home for the summer. Of the two, he had placed his bets on the latter, and the airport had been as well-guarded as he could manage without raising any attention. Six shifters had been on hand, whom Hannah had promised would all be prepared to fight and all of whom had inconspicuous, easily hidden forms. The Hogwarts Express, he had counted on the Ministry doing its job, and Blaise had mentioned that the SOW Party had their own precautions in place for the students.

Nothing had happened. Hannah had reported to him, soon after arriving herself in London, and he had visited Grimmauld Place to check on Archie earlier that evening. Both had reported tense journeys home, but nothing untoward. He asked Hannah to send her best spies after Lord Voldemort's camp, which his information indicated was still in the Lestrange Manor, and she had agreed, grim-faced, and disappeared.

But when he blinked sleep from his eyes and seized his wand from under his pillow, the book he had been reading in bed falling to the floor with a heavy thud, he knew that something had finally happened. The wards to Rosier Place had fallen.

He knew it, because he was first in line the Rosier title, the son of the reigning Lord. And wards only fell like this if the reigning Lord was _dead_. Or soulless, or somehow otherwise unable to carry out the duties of the reigning Lord, but most of the time, dead.

A childhood of lessons, from a mother who had to have known well what Aldon was, drove him. He knew what he was supposed to do – were the wards to Rosier Place ever to fall, he was to get there, find the primal keystone, issue his claim, and be prepared to duel. As a child and as the acknowledged Rosier Heir, he had thought she was being hyperbolic and ridiculous, a pain for the sake of being a pain.

As a halfblood adult, he now thought very differently.

He dressed quickly, reaching for a clean shirt, trousers, good shoes, and pulling on both his ACD and a wand holster before he buttoned his cuffs and put on a dark waistcoat. The batteries to the ACD were full, and he flicked the device on without channelling magic to it. His wand was easily accessible on his other hand. He barely paused, picking up the shoulder holster holding his handgun, though he decided to leave the sniper rifle behind – it was too big, and he didn't see how he could carry it and move quickly, easily, and silently. Finally, he sheathed his ritual knife at his belt, snapping it into place with a very final click.

He paused, Alex's training coming into his mind. He needed backup, if he could get it. He focused hard, thinking about the night of the Unity Ball, of that magical half hour after Francesca had kissed him, when he believed that he could win it all. He blocked out what came after, because none of that brought him joy, but that one half-hour had easily been the happiest he had ever been, in many years. "_Expecto Patronum_," he hissed, and it was a second before a faded merlin came into view, snapping its beak.

"Message for the Lord Queenscove and the Lord Black," he told it, as his Patronus turned one ghostly eye at him. "The Rosier Place wards have fallen. I need to investigate it. Any… any assistance would be appreciated. End message."

The falcon ruffled some of its feathers, a tacit acknowledgement of the message received, and threw itself out the window. It would take a few minutes to reach Queenscove, but Aldon padded his way out into the hallway.

He hesitated a moment at Christie's door, but he couldn't go without telling her. He knocked at her door once, politely, waiting a few minutes before he tried again, more insistent.

There was a rustle behind the door, and Christie opened it, brown hair falling around her face in messy waves. She looked groggy, but her brown eyes sharpened as she took him in, lingering at the gun hanging off his shoulders. "Aldon, what is it?"

"The wards to Rosier Place have fallen," he said, quiet.

"Evan," she whispered, reaching for the door frame to steady herself. "And Eveline."

"I'm going to go and look into it." Aldon paused, taking in the way Christie's face had gone pale with fear. "Please, stay here, Christie. I'm calling in some assistance, and it will – I will see what it is about. It may not mean anything."

His core twitched, because his last line was an outright lie. If a Lord was bound to the lands, the wards wouldn't fall until or unless that Lord or Lady had fallen. Almost always, that was to death – it was rare that a Lord lost their claimed lands unless they had died. Or, maybe, death was the better option compared to some of the others. It was probable that his father was dead.

"All – all right," Christie replied, taking a breath, nervous. "I can come with you, if you give me a few moments?"

"No." Aldon shook his head. She was an alchemist, and she knew little by way of defensive magic. "Please stay here. I'm sure it's nothing, Christie, and I want to keep the group small."

She hesitated, but she nodded, opening her door wider. "I'll – I'll be waiting in the living room, then. If I don't hear from you within the next two hours, I'll call Aman and we'll go after you, all right? Please, please be careful, Aldon."

Aldon nodded, distracted as he caught the glimmer of a silver Patronus appearing in the corner of his eye. "I will Patronus you within two hours, at least."

Christie nodded, biting her lip, and went back into her room. When she reappeared, she was wearing a dressing robe, and Aldon turned to the Patronus – a great dog, huge, almost a Grim.

"I'll come with you," the Lord Black said. "Meet me at Grimmauld Place – we'll Apparate to Rosier Place together."

"Understood." If they were meeting at Grimmauld Place, that would be convenient for Neal, who could Floo and meet them there. "I will be there shortly. I have called Neal as well."

He checked his weapons over one more time, slipping out into the hallway of his mother's building and heading for the emergency stairwell. The emergency stairwell was sound-proofed, so he Apparated with no worries to the main entrance of Grimmauld Place and let himself in the front gate with a grimace of distaste. He hoped the snakes were sleeping right now, because he had no desire to see any of them.

Neal's Patronus, a leopard seal, appeared as Aldon was taking the steps up to the front. "I'm coming. Will Floo to Grimmauld Place. See you soon."

His Patronus began fading as the message was passed – with the distance between London and Queenscove, almost on the Scottish border, Aldon wasn't surprised that the Patronuses only carried one message between them. He moved to knock, but Archie opened it before the knocker could fall back onto the metal plate under it.

"Come on in, Al," he said, and Aldon didn't bother to correct him. He was too wound up, and something in him said they needed to get over to Rosier Place sooner rather than later. The wards were down. The wards were down, and he needed to go see what had happened. He needed to secure it, if there was no current Lord – he was first in line, and Rosier Place and the title were _his_. Archie's eyes roved down, lingering on his sidearm, at the dagger at his belt. "I heard from Dad. You'll be careful, won't you?"

"Yes," Aldon replied, succinct. "Is your father ready? Neal is coming as well – he will Floo here, first."

"It could be a trick, Aldon." The Lord Black's face was serious, and Aldon saw that he had picked out clothes that were easy to move in, his wand in a holster on his arm. He was tense, but ready for action.

"I know," Aldon replied. "But I haven't a choice. It's Rosier Place – I need to go, one way or the other. The wards are down – including the Anti-Apparition Wards."

The Lord Black nodded, slow. "I understand. But let's go carefully – we'll Apparate in a distance away on the grounds, and approach slowly. If things look odd, you say so, and we get out. Your life isn't worth the title, Aldon."

Aldon hesitated, but nodded, even if he wasn't sure he agreed. Thankfully, Neal tumbled out of the fireplace a second later, wearing a faded pair of jeans, a loose sweatshirt, his sword in hand. He looked Aldon and the Lord Black over, and his eyes narrowed in a confused frown.

"I thought we were going into a potentially dangerous battle situation, not a formal event?" There was a glimmer of a smile around his lips, and his voice was light, though the fact that he carried his blade out rather than his wand meant that he was prepared to fight.

Aldon scowled at him. "These are my normal clothes, Neal."

"Sure. But I won't be bailing you out if you rip your waistcoat." Neal rolled his eyes. "Let's go. Coordinates?"

"I'll Side-Along everyone." Aldon opened the door, heading to the shadowed corner that the Lord Black used as an Apparition Point, just out of sight of the public, but outside the wards. "I'm going to put us within the Rosier grounds, but I never worked out the coordinates because it's within the usual wards."

"A place with cover?" the Lord Black asked, sharp. "Trees?"

"Sculpture garden. No one would expect it, and one of the sculptures provides good cover." Aldon paused. "Maybe I should have brought the sniper rifle."

"Not too late to go back," Neal suggested, but Aldon shook his head.

"No. If it's not useful right away, it'll be too heavy to carry around. Let's just go." Aldon held out his arms, letting Neal and the Lord Black latch on, and focused hard as he turned.

Rosier Place was dark when they arrived. They appeared in the sculpture garden, just as Aldon had planned, and he cast a wary look around. Everything was still, and silent – a calm summer night, with either everyone asleep, or no one at home. He wouldn't be surprised at either. His mother had only ever been in Britain for half of the year, at most, and his father had always worked long hours.

The sculptures were haunting in their stillness, their forms frozen in the moonlight. He had Apparated them under a massive stone wave, crashing onto a crowd of men, women and children, and Aldon knew that the other side of the wave had an old, wizened wizard, wand raised. His mouth turned, a grimace of distaste as he considered the statue in light of his own family's history, and he privately resolved to have the statue removed and destroyed, if he was the new Lord Rosier. He could have a new one made in its place, something beautiful and not a demonstration of terror.

The other statues were less problematic, graven images largely from wizarding legend. There was one of Beedle the Bard, holding a scroll; another of the Dark Lord and Lady Light, clasping hands. He let his eyes linger on that one for a moment, a hopeful memory assaulting him, but pulled away quickly. He didn't have time for dreams right now, and it was best that he move on.

It looked clear, and it felt clear. The magic of the grounds vibrated a little against his core, inviting – Aldon had been the acknowledged Rosier Heir, and he was still the closest Rosier relation. By blood, he was first in line to the title, and no noble manor liked to sit unclaimed.

_Is anyone here_, he demanded, sending his magic through the grounds. Much of his education had been geared towards this moment, towards harnessing and controlling his manor, and while the manor wouldn't respond to him fully until he was its Lord, it would give him some things. _Tell me._

The grounds whimpered. Aldon thought that meant no, but he couldn't be sure. His grounds were unsettled, and his father wasn't here. That much the grounds could say, that Evan Rosier, the previous Lord, was not on the grounds, either alive or dead. And there was no Lady Rosier on the grounds either, because there had not been a Lady Rosier in many years.

Aldon blinked at the last. His mother, the Lady Rosier, should have magically been the Lady Rosier as well, but Christie had said that it was a marriage in name only. He left it alone – that didn't matter. His father wasn't on the grounds, and that was what mattered.

He motioned for Neal and the Lord Black to follow him as he crept through the sculpture garden, slipping closer to the dark manor, his childhood home. Rosier Place was lined with Grecian pillars in the front, a triangular piece on top linking the middle four pillars together. Hidden behind the pillars were grand double doors, fashioned in oak, painted and carved with the crest of the Rosiers, a black bird on a white field. The mansion was built in red stone, rare for this part of England and imported, and the windows were lined in black. Black, white and red, the Rosier colours.

The windows to his home were dark, and Aldon focused, trying to feel his way through the manor's inherent magic. Without being a full Lord and the master of the manor, the house-elves were not required to obey him, but they did traditionally obey their master's family members to some extent. He could not summon them either, not unless they were listening for him, but maybe he could prod one of them magically to come to him.

The manor was uncooperative. It wanted him to go farther in, to claim it, but it couldn't give him much until he claimed it. None of the house-elves appeared, and Aldon was close to some of the elves, his old nurse-elf in particular. If Ummi knew he was here and that he wanted to speak to her, she would have come to him.

Nothing for it, he thought, biting his lip and leading Neal and the Lord Black around the back of the house. If there was an ambush, coming in through the front would be foolish, a move anyone would expect. A full circle of the house still showed no signs of life, not that that meant anything. If he was setting up an ambush on himself, he would also make the manor quiet and unassuming, apparently empty.

There was a side window out of the basement that Aldon used to use to sneak out of his lessons when he was a child. He hoped he would still fit, because if he did, it would be a better entrance into Rosier Place than any of the doors or the bigger picture windows. He slipped closer to the building, a mad dash over open ground, diving into the shadows against the walls. The Lord Black and Neal followed suit, seconds later, and he inched along to the window he remembered.

He flicked out his wand and examined the window closely. It would be tight, but he thought he could fit. The wards were down, and there were only a couple minor spells locking the windows, something that even as a child he had been able to undo if he wanted to enough. As an adult, as someone with a NEWT in Curse-breaking, it was child's play for him to snap the weak spells holding the lock together and push the window open.

"_Câlisse, _you can't honestly expect me to fit through there," Neal muttered, eyeing the window dubiously, but Aldon shot him a glare. He pushed both feet in, wiggling his way, and found that he made it through rather easily. He heard Neal sigh gustily behind him, before the tall youth sat down and did the same. The Lord Black shimmied through last, wincing as he just managed to pull his shoulders through the narrow window.

"Been some time since I had to do anything like that," he said, an amused spark in his eyes. Aldon wondered if some part of the Lord Black was enjoying this, and decided to simply ignore it. Instead, he waved his hand in the pattern for a light rune, sending it to the ceiling.

This room was a storage room, dusty with disuse – there was no sign that anyone had been in it for years. As a child, he had poked under the dark sheets a few times, finding old, mismatched furniture, boxes of ancient scrolls and books, ugly vases and umbrella stands and lampshades. Based on the dark shapes under the sheets, it didn't look like anything had changed.

"_Hominem Revelio_," the Lord Black muttered behind him. They waited a few minutes, but there was nothing. "Doesn't mean they aren't here and hidden. Let's go."

"I need to get to the study," Aldon murmured in reply. He would be in a better position, all around, if he claimed the manor. He would be tied into the wards, as the new Lord, and nothing would be hidden from him. Lords, on their own lands, were legendarily difficult to defeat. Even if most Lords no longer had castles like Queenscove, their lands were still fortresses, magically speaking.

He slipped out into the storage room, wand at the ready, and he heard Neal and the Lord Black following him out. Other than the wine cellar, the basement level of Rosier Place had never seen much use, though Aldon had explored it thoroughly as a child. There were storage rooms upon storage rooms, several cellars, and a few empty, windowless rooms with cold stone floors in which Aldon had never managed to stay long. Something about those rooms bit at his magical core, uncomfortable, making him shiver, and he had always left a few minutes after he entered.

But he didn't need to check every room of this floor – it would be more far more efficient if he just got to his father's study, claimed the manor, and forced Rosier Place to tell him what he needed to know. He made his way to the dark stairs, creeping along carefully, his ears pricked for any noise.

There was nothing. There was nothing at all, and Aldon felt uneasy, taking the steps upwards as silently as he could. He jumped the fourth step, which squeaked, signalling Neal and the Lord Black behind him to do the same. Neal's sword was out, in front of him, and the Lord Black was periodically casting _Hominem Revelio_, but kept shaking his head when the results came back.

"Still nothing," he muttered, when he caught Aldon looking at him.

Aldon nodded, feeling even more uneasy, and he pushed opened the door at the top of the stairs to the Rosier Place main level.

It creaked, unexpected, a gunshot in the silence. Aldon froze, listening hard, but there was nothing more. He took a deep breath, waiting for his heartbeat to calm, before pushing the door open fully, walking into the front hallway of Rosier Place.

It looked the same as he remembered – dark hardwood floors, white wallpaper which he knew would be subtly striped with cream and silver in the light, burgundy drapes framing the windows. It was spotless and overly pristine, as always, as if no one lived there. And for the most part, no one did; with Aldon at school, the Lady Rosier in France, and his father at work, the manor was only a stopping place to sleep, more of a hotel and a showpiece than a home.

His father's study, where the primal keystone to Rosier Place was hidden, was at the back of the west wing of the manor, in the family quarters. He passed through long hallways, past open doorways leading to parlours, sitting rooms, formal reception rooms. The Floo, set in the main hall, was dark, and the doors to the ballroom, with its many balconies overlooking the back gardens, were sealed shut. The library doors, too, were closed. He passed the formal dining room with the long grand table seating fourteen, where each chair was heavily carved, ornate.

"_Stupefy_," he heard the Lord Black muttering behind him, and he looked over his shoulder. The Lord Black was stupefying the portraits as he went, and he caught Aldon's look. "Don't want any of them communicating with any other portraits."

"None of them are connected anywhere." Aldon turned forwards again, creeping along the hallways. It was too silent, and every creak and groan of the building was thunder. "The Rosiers have never been that notable, to have major portraits elsewhere."

"Better safe than not," the Lord Black replied, Stunning another portrait. "Let's keep going."

It was as if Aldon had never left. Everything was the same; everything was still arranged with the same sofas, the same themes and matching décor that had occupied his entire life. He supposed there had no real reason to change it, even if he had been gone for almost a year, but somehow the familiar settings felt odd to him.

He didn't fit in here, anymore. Rosier Place as it was did not fit him anymore, because he had changed too much over the last year. Here he was, dressed entirely in Muggle clothing, equipped with a Muggle handgun and an ACD alongside his wand and a ritual knife. He had behind him the Lord Black and the Lord Queenscove – one a Dark pureblood known largely for changing his family to Light politics, the other a Light wizard of unknown blood-status raised and trained in America. He wasn't the same person, and he had somehow expected his childhood home, his manor and his birthright, to have changed with him.

The door to the family quarters was the same, and Aldon reached, almost hesitantly, for it. Warm oak, but the wood was cold when he touched it. He glanced back, at Neal and the Lord Black, but the Lord Black shook his head.

"Still nothing – no one is here."

Aldon nodded, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Nothing happened.

The air that streamed out was a little musty, as if there hadn't been much life in the manor for some time. His own rooms were on the third floor, and he wondered vaguely whether those had been left in the same condition, but he could find that out later. It was his father's study, and the primal keystone, that was important now.

He had been in his father's study only a few times in his life. His father used it rarely, preferring to work at the Rosier Investment Trust offices in Diagon Alley. The room was dominated by massive desk, which looked to be carved from a single piece of stone, dark, polished mirror-bright and bare. The walls were lined with shelves, showing a variety of knick-knacks from around the world: a globe, showing a map of the world with certain places marked, a collection of masks that looked Italian in origin, a few sculptures that looked Greek. There was a small Muggle picture of Christie, looking much younger and laughing, on a shelf, one that Aldon passed with a short pause.

It was unlike his father, so he stopped and drew a quick Sight rune. There were traces of magic on it, fading, and his lips tightened. He recognized his father's magic to feel it, and the fact that it was fading was another sign that his father was dead. He took a deep breath, turning around in the room.

Neal and the Lord Black were looking around the study, eyes wary. They would look out for any attacks, so Aldon focused on what was important. Something had happened, but he didn't know what, and the sensible thing to do would be to secure his position and wait for information. Hannah would be back with a report, likely soon for something this serious, or Zabini, or Lestrange.

He reached for his ritual knife, briskly unbuttoning the sleeve of his arm. He glanced at the two scars lining it and winced – he was vain enough not to want yet another scar, and yet sensible enough to know that he would likely have many more before this war was through. He was not a fighter, and blood magic was an edge that he could not afford to abandon.

The primal keystone to Rosier Place shimmered, its polished surface reflecting his face as he looked down it. Many lords kept their keystones hidden, one plain-looking stone nested among others, but the primal keystone to the Rosier lands, and their title, was this desk, right here. He held his arm over the table, and with the other, he cut a small, shallow cut, waiting as a few drops sizzled onto the surface of the desk, immediately soaking into the stone.

"My name is Aldon Étienne Blake Rosier," he said, his words dropping still as stones into the silence. "By right of blood, I claim the Rosier title and these lands."

The briefest moment of silence, and then magic roared in his ears. Nothing could have prepared him for this moment; Rosier Place took his blood and with it, issued a challenge loud as a trumpet, soaring out to anyone else who might have had a claim. Knowledge rushed into his brain, a maelstrom of information – Aldon gritted his teeth, determined to hold it, ride it, master it because he didn't have time for anything else. He couldn't afford to spend weeks mastering his lands, because unlike Neal, he was a blood noble _bastard_ who could be fighting challenges to his birthright within the next few days.

He found the wards, including the Anti-Apparition Wards, and he threw them back up. They would need work – they were good enough for his mother and father, but they were not good enough for him. He located six traps located across his grounds, resetting them magically, and he refreshed the numerous fading locks around his new mansion. Magically, he sensed the other eleven keystones located across the property, including one in the sculpture gardens, and he refueled their power from the primal stone where needed.

No one was home. Nothing was there.

He opened his eyes, seeing that the cut on his arm had already scarred over, and he winced a little as he shook his arm out. Neal and the Lord Black were watching him, and Aldon shook his head slightly.

"There's nothing. No one is here – I can confirm that," he said, his voice short with tension. "Let me send a message to Christie to advise that I'm fine, then we can keep looking to see what happened to my father."

"Is this the traditional time for me to extend my congratulations?" Neal asked, a wicked glint to the smirk on his face. He bowed very properly, the bow that Aldon had spent no less than twelve hours drilling in him to make it exactly thirty degrees. "Congratulations, my lord Rosier. I look forward to your entrance into the Wizengamot."

Aldon glared at him, considering the merits of hexing him, while the Lord Black snickered. He decided against the hex in favour of summoning his Patronus, sending it winging to his mother with a quick report and telling her to go back to bed.

"You don't need to remain," he added to Neal and the Lord Black, sheathing his wand in favour of reaching through the manor in search of the house-elves. "I can take it from here."

Neal exchanged a glance with the Lord Black, but shook his head. "If it's all the same to you, we'll stay and help. There's a Floo here, so heading home won't be an issue."

"I'll just send a message to Archie," the Lord Black said, summoning his own Patronus.

Aldon paused, thinking over his possible responses, before simply nodding in gratitude. He didn't really want to be left alone that night. "Thank you. Let me call one of my house-elves, we can see what they know."

It took Aldon a second to find the part of his manor's magic that connected him to the house-elves, tugging at it as gently as he could. "Ummi! Ummi, could you come here, please?"

There was a crack of Apparition, and his old nurse-elf was there. She had been a young elf when she was given care of him, and was now quite the business-like middle-aged elf, wearing a clean tea towel stamped with the Rosier crest and a small handkerchief over her head. Aldon went to her immediately, dropping to one knee to talk to her from her own height.

"My Lord Rosier," the elf said, her voice unusually low for an elf and worried. "I is happy to be seeing you home, but very worried. What can Ummi be doing for you?"

"Ummi, do you know where my father is? Do any of the elves know?" Aldon was surprised to hear his own voice sounded worried, almost fearful. He didn't even _like_ his father. "Or my mother?"

Ummi frowned. "Ummi is not being sure. Ummi is remembering that Lord Evan is returning home this night near seven-thirty, but is not eating at home. He is leaving soon after, and Lady Eveline with him. Lady Eveline is being home only a month ago from France but is in her quarters most of the time. Let Ummi be calling the other elves, my lord Rosier?"

Aldon swallowed. It was odd to hear himself being referred to by his father's title, when she had called him _Master Aldon_ his entire life. "Yes, please, Ummi. And if I may, I am directing you in charge of the elves."

"Rolly is not liking to hear that, but it is being my lord Rosier's decision. He is being Lord Evan's chief house-elf." Ummi was unruffled as she snapped her fingers. There was a moment, and another half-dozen elves popped into the study, including a young one that Aldon did not recognize, still sucking at its thumb. "Is any of yous knowing what is being the Lord Evan's plans tonight?"

The house-elves looked at each other, at Aldon. Most of them shook their heads, but one of them, an older elf with his tea towel perfectly pressed, grimaced. "Rolly is knowing that Lord Evan and Lady Eveline is having a meeting at Malfoy Manor tonight. He is getting home early and is telling Rolly he is having a SOW Party meeting, and Lady Eveline is going with him. He is telling Rolly to be expecting him back before midnight."

"Malfoy Manor," Aldon murmured, his lips curving in annoyance. There was little he could do about that – Malfoy Manor was the most frequent meeting spot for SOW Party meetings that he knew, largely because the Lord Malfoy stood so highly in Lord Riddle's favour. He wouldn't be flying to Malfoy Manor on this, not with only Neal and the Lord Black behind him, and not without further information and planning. He wasn't close to the Malfoys, had never been, but if there had been a SOW Party meeting, then the Parkinsons would have been there, possibly also the Selwyns. And Ed, whom, his informants had advised, had taken his father's favoured position within the SOW Party. "Thank you, Rolly, elves."

"You is being very welcome, my lord Rosier." Rolly exchanged a look with Ummi, who nodded. "We is preparing rooms for your guests?"

"No need," Neal interrupted with a friendly smile. "Sirius and I will probably Floo home, after we help Aldon search the manor. Thank you for the offer."

The old house-elf threw him a bullish look. "We is preparing rooms anyway. Just in case the Lords Queenscove and Black be changing their minds." There was a crack, and all the elves disappeared.

"Well," the Lord Black said, his expression tightening. The Lord Black, Aldon recalled, had a family connection to the Malfoys, and he had only grown closer to them through Harriett's ruse, since for many years he had believed Draco Malfoy to be one of Archie's best friends. As far as Aldon had always been able to tell, Archie's own feelings towards the Malfoys and the Parkinsons were decidedly neutral, and he wasn't sure what that meant for the Lord Black's fragile relationship with either family. "Aldon, do you—"

"I am not going off to the Malfoys in the absence of more information, and possibly an army," Aldon snapped, then he took a breath, trying to decide what to do. "You should not, either. If the wards fell, then my father is dead or otherwise incapacitated."

The Lord Black raised his eyebrow. "I wasn't going to suggest it."

Aldon paused, then he sighed, shutting his eyes. "My apologies, Lord Black. I am... tense."

"Apology accepted, Lord Rosier." Aldon opened his eyes, glaring at the Lord Black, who was smirking slightly. "We now have the same status, so unless you call me by name, I am, by etiquette, required to return the formality. Let's search the house – where does your father do most of his work?"

"Not here." Aldon shook his head, ignoring the rest of the Lord Black's speech. It was unlikely that his parents had left any trace of anything in the house, but it was worth searching. "He did most of his work at the Rosier Investment Trust offices in Diagon Alley. But we might find something in his personal quarters."

"Then let's go look. Keep an eye on your wards, Lord Rosier."

Aldon snorted, but he led the way through the family quarters, breaking into rooms that he had never been in before.

There was nothing of importance, but maybe a million things of minor note that Aldon had never known. His father's rooms were done in a soothing midnight blue, complemented with bright notes of silver, and there was a tall stack of Muggle mystery novels on his bedside table. Aldon picked one up, thumbing through it, and a worn picture of Christie fell out. He found a very respectable port collection in his father's parlour, where the bookshelves were lined with yet more mysteries, as well as thrillers and spy novels, and Aldon picked out names like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, and Raymond Chandler. There were traces of magic everywhere, illusion magic that must have covered these titles previously, turning these books into something proper and wizarding. He found a photo album hidden in a drawer, the old sealing charm fading, and flipped it open to see picture after picture of his father and Christie. At least twenty years old, these pictures, and his father was young, Christie was young, and they looked happy.

He closed the photo album and moved on, the similarities between him and his father rubbing him oddly. His father, too, had treated his rooms as his sanctuary, a place where it was safe to be himself, to indulge in pastimes deemed less acceptable by the Wizarding British mainstream. Aldon had partaken in banned magical theory books; his father, into Muggle culture, specifically the same sort of books that Christie loved. His father wouldn't have kept anything useful here, not in a place that he had felt safe enough to read Muggle books.

His mother's rooms had been even more puzzling. Her rooms were white, minimalist, except for a heavy wooden trunk that he and the Lord Black pulled out from underneath her bed. He had tried to open it, but the lock bit him – he had thrown a set of curse identification charms at it, and the trunk had been blinding with spell-light. He recognized about half of the curses, all of which were Dark and malicious, as well as a blood ward. As a Dark wizard himself, he could only break into this trunk only with time and much difficulty, so he grimaced and left it alone. At least, if the spells were still alive, that meant that his mother was likely still alive.

Her parlour was equally bland. There was a row of books on her shelf, thick tomes without titles that didn't let Aldon handle them. They were warded with the same spells that guarded her trunk, biting at his fingers, and Aldon left them alone. The few other books in the room were informative enough; more than half of them were in French, and the remainder were books on offensive and defensive magic. He knew that his mother had a Mastery in Defense, but as far as he knew, she had not touched those skills in many years. There was nothing obvious in her rooms that told him what the SOW Party was meeting about, or anything else.

He barely checked his own rooms. One look, and it was exactly as he remembered, done in royal blue and grey with his chaise and wall of books on magical theory. All the best books he had taken with him, but the rest were here, along with the detritus of his childhood, the paraphernalia of a person that he was no longer. He shook his head, shutting the doors – he didn't think his parents had taken a single step in his rooms since he had been formally disowned.

From there, he moved through the rest of the family quarters, but he and his parents had always been people who had kept to their own spaces. The family sitting room was bland, the sofas hard and the coffee table bare. The family dining room, the one that he had eaten breakfasts and dinner in every morning and night when he was at home, carried the trappings of a family, with a table set for three and numerous pictures of them decorating the walls. Lady Eveline Rosier, holding a five-year-old Aldon on her lap, the Lord Rosier standing behind them. A family picture with Aldon in his school robes, on the morning of his first trip to Hogwarts. Another family picture, taken only a few years ago, in the ballroom before the SOW Party Gala, before Aldon had gotten drunk. A wall of lies, one that now disgusted him, even if it didn't make his core waver.

There was nothing in the family quarters either. Aldon moved on to the rest of the mansion, his hopes waning. The main house, with the beautiful reception rooms, library, formal dining room and ballroom were used only to impress, which in Aldon's life had meant if they were hosting Lord Riddle. There was another wing, one with guest rooms, but that had never been used in Aldon's memory. He checked room after room, Neal and the Lord Black at his side. The Lord Black was true to his word – he now referred to Aldon exclusively as Lord Rosier, which Aldon now was, though he didn't feel any different now than he did a few hours ago. All the rooms were empty, devoid of anything useful, or any information at all. There was nothing.

Like Aldon, his parents had kept their thoughts, their beliefs, their histories close to their chests.

He, the Lord Black, and Neal had returned to the family dining room by half two in the morning, and Aldon had asked one of the elves for a carafe of coffee for them all. They should sleep – he was about to suggest that they either Floo home or that his elves show them to rooms in the family quarters, when something triggered at the wards.

"What's up?" Neal asked, yawning, even as he struggled to pull himself together. The Lord Black threw back his cup of coffee, grey eyes sparking at the expression on Aldon's face, as Aldon very carefully set his mug down and reached to check his weapons.

He shut his eyes, demanding that Rosier Place show him the intruders onto his lands. The wards said that they were familiar, that they weren't strangers, but it took a moment for Aldon to demand that they show him an image.

It was his mother – not Christie, but the Lady Eveline Rosier, striding across the grounds, half-supporting the Lady Parkinson, who seemed to be crying. With her was the Lady Malfoy, pale, one arm around her son, Draco Malfoy. All of them except the Lady Rosier seemed to be in shock, while his mother only wore an expression of hard determination.

Aldon bit his lip, trying to think. He was tired, and his brain was slow, his thoughts more jumbled than usual. The good thing was, with the Anti-Apparition Wards alive, he had time – the bad part, he realized, was that he knew nothing about his mother, nor Lady Parkinson, nor the Malfoys. These were not his family, and they were not his friends; he couldn't take the risk.

"My mother," he explained briefly, standing up from the table and willing the caffeine to do its work. "The Lady Rosier, who was not magically the Lady Rosier and also not my mother. With her is Lady Malfoy, Lady Parkinson, and Draco Malfoy. We'll go meet them, and be prepared to fight."

"We don't know that they're enemies," the Lord Black reminded him, his voice soft. "We should proceed carefully, but do give them the benefit of the doubt, Lord Rosier."

Aldon made a disgruntled noise, something like a_ mmph_, which wasn't very eloquent of him, but he was tired. It didn't matter. Needs must, so he led the way to the front of the house, opening the grand oak doors. He motioned with his head for Neal and the Lord Black to fan out, behind him – four on three weren't the best odds, especially when he was so tired, and Draco Malfoy was a good dueller. With a Mastery in Defense, he also could not discount the woman he formerly called his mother, so he unsnapped the button holding his gun from sliding out and pulled it from his shoulder holster with his left hand. He was not left-handed, but with his wand in his right hand, Alex had trained him to use his gun in his left.

He waited until they came into view, within talking distance. He knew they saw him, because their pace picked up, but he pointed his gun at the sky and fired a warning shot, before levelling the weapon at the group. He saw the Lady Rosier's mouth curve in an appreciative smile, while the Lady Malfoy looked ashen, staring at the weapon, and both Draco and the Lady Parkinson seemed too distraught for anything Aldon did to have any impact on them.

"Halt!" He snapped, and he was happy to hear that his voice sounded much sharper than he felt. "State your name and business. Be warned that I will know if you lie."

His mother transferred the Lady Parkinson's weight to the Lady Malfoy, with a few words that Aldon couldn't hear from their distance. She took two steps forward, but Aldon didn't lower his gun, or his wand, and instead he scowled, hoping she didn't come any closer. Aldon heard a sharp intake of breath from Neal, standing not far away from him, and his friend's sword rose into a guard position. The wind picked up, a warning from his friend, the beginnings of his winter wind.

"My name is Lina Avery, Stormwing," the woman he used to call _mother_ said, her voice confident, clear, and carrying. She flicked her hand, and a silver bird appeared, arrowing upwards, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. "My torture limit is thirteen minutes and forty-four seconds, my chosen attributes duty, tolerance, and caution. I come to offer you, my lord Rosier, my services as a warmage. The Lord Riddle is dead, and the Ministry has fallen."

XXX

_AN: Only three reviews last time? I would say that is why everyone gets this ending to the entirety of Vanguard, but that would be a lie - I planned for this from the start. I might have started posting the next work, Cataclysm, sooner with a bit more encouragement (your reviews are writing fuel, you know), but unfortunately I don't have enough buffer for anything other than the usual. Thanks go to meek_bookworm, the most amazing beta-reader/editor ever, and to everyone else that is supporting me!_

_This is the end of Vanguard, so make sure you're following me as an author to get an email when Cataclysm starts. Until then, if you want the summary, it'll be posted on my profile. Thanks for reading!_


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